


Two Old Men and the Sea

by embulalia



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Demonic Possession, Gen, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, Post-Weirdmageddon, Sea Monsters, Seizures, Sibling Bonding, Stan O War II, Torture, Werewolves, an attempt to cut off a loophole left by the finale, side characters get a fair bit of limelight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 69,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embulalia/pseuds/embulalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the events of Take Back the Falls, Stan and Ford Pines are living out their childhood dreams, chasing adventure aboard the Stan O War II. What they get is far from what they expected, and certainly not what they had hoped.</p><p>Please note: originally published pre-Journal 3. Some details are now technically canon divergence, but as a whole they're pretty minor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The vessel was quite different when they first got it. The dark wooden exterior had been glossy and smooth; a thick, steel radio antenna extended from the top of the cabin, stark against the sky. The room inside the cabin was furnished like a hotel lounge, with a plush chair and a small table. They had boarded it for the first time uncertain, their legs wobbling as the floor lightly pitched from side to side. Papers and charts and maps were tucked under their arms, dock workers hauling some furniture and equipment on board behind them. While the blank maps were pinned to the walls of the captain’s quarters and the telescope was bolted in place beside that antenna, a dock hand was carefully painting the boat’s name onto its side.

A year changes so much. The gloss is long gone, worn away by wind and salt water. Chips are missing from the wood, lost in grapples against creatures of unfathomable identities. The maps in the cabin are well marked, routes plotted and notes jotted beside them in quick script. New maps have joined the originals, displaying small towns and villages along the coasts of Canada, Greenland, Iceland, and Norway. Photographs of incredible beasts fill the spaces between the maps, more notes decorating their borders. The two chairs at the desk are well worn. The hammocks in the living space are well used. Everything shows signs of age and strain; everything but that carefully painted name. 

The Stan O War II is settled in an Icelandic port, bobbing gently on the water while a dockhand goes over the letters in black paint, refreshing them. The boat’s owners are in the tavern nearby, enjoying a drink and a meal. 

“And then it came crashing onto the deck! Who knows what would’ve happened if I hadn’t grabbed the harpoon on my way out of the cabin?!” cries the first old man excitedly, slamming his fist on the table for emphasis. His brother nods, a wide grin on his face. 

“That’s quite a story,” comments the waitress, “And what did you say it was again?”

“An Akkorokamui,” exclaims the other man with just as much enthusiasm as his brother (albeit less physical assertion). Upon seeing her blank face, he continues: “It’s a massive monster resembling an octopus. Traditionally, it’s supposed to linger in the Funko Bay near Japan, but it must’ve gotten lost somehow and wandered far from home! We ran into it in the Arctic Ocean, when we were leaving Greenland and heading back here to restock supplies.”

The waitress blinks. Then, she puts a smile back on. “Well, uh… that sounds like it was real exciting.”

“You bet it was!” agrees the first man, polishing off his beer.

“I’ll bring you a glass of water…” the waitress says, taking the mug and hurrying off with it. The brothers share a glance, then burst out laughing, their beaming grins identical.

“Did you see her face?” the second man wheezes, “To think she actually believed that an Akkorokamui would be in the Arctic!”

“Forget that, the best part was when I described all that blood in the water!” 

They rub their eyes in a matching gesture as they catch their breath. 

“See, I told you that telling people bullshit would be funny.”

The second man takes off his cracked glasses and wipes them on his sweater. “You were right, Stanley, you were right.”

“You bet I was, Poindexter. I made a living out of telling people crap like that, and it never stopped being funny.” Stan leans back and stretches, getting a crick out of his back. The sound is louder than he expected, but he laughs it off. “Age, huh? Even when we’re running all over the place and fighting off monsters, we’re still getting old and creaky.” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” His brother, Ford, sets his glasses back on his large nose. The lenses are still smudged and dirty. Stan rolls his eyes. 

“They’re not clean yet, Sixer.”

Ford shrugs. “They’re already cracked.”

The waitress approaches their table, preventing Stan from retorting. “Here you are,” she says, bussing their dirty dishes and setting a glass of water in the place of the empty beer mug. “I hope you aren’t planning to drive home,” she says pointedly.

“Not to worry,” says Ford with a smile as he sips his own beer. “We came on a vessel, after all.” She doesn’t look at all relieved, so he adds, “But we intended to spend the night in town anyway.” She nods and leaves them the bill. 

“You almost finished there?” Stan asks.

“Don’t rush me, Stanley.” 

Stan groans and plops the money on the table, in cash. He always paid in cash. 

The door of the tavern opens, the bell chirping to announce it. Both brothers jump and look to see who had entered. The dockhand responsible for the repairs they had commissioned dusts off his hands and wipes his feet before properly entering the joint. The waitress smiles at him.

“Well hi there, can I get you something?”

“Not right now, Darla. I’m looking for some customers of mine. Two older guys, identical twins. One of them had extra fingers?”

Stan sticks his arm in the air and waves, catching the man’s attention. “So you’re finished?” he asks when the man approaches.

“Yessir, just need to let the paint dry.”

“No structural anomalies?” Ford asks, sharing a glance with Stan. A month prior, an amorphous goop monster had made its way onto the ship, leaving residue everywhere. They were still finding bits of it in the floorboards and worried about what it might be doing to the wood.

“No sir,” the worker assured, “Just the normal scars and wear you’d expect from this kind of vessel.”

“Excellent!” Ford says with a smile, taking another sip from his drink.

“She’ll be ready to sail again tomorrow, no problem.”

“Does the nameplate look good?” Stan asks, grinning.

“Looked good to me when I checked on it. Stan O War II it said, clear as day.”

“I’ll be coming out to take a look before we pay you,” Stan says.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll wait up.” The man waves goodbye to Darla and walks out. Ford sips his beer.

“Would you hurry it up, Sixer? You’ve been nursing that thing forever.”

“We’re in no rush, Stanley. Go check on the boat and I’ll meet you at the motel.”

“No way, you’re coming with me. So hurry it up.”

Ford raises a thick brow. Then, the confusion on his face softens into a fond smile. “Alright, alright, fine.” He finishes his drink, downing the last mouthfuls quickly. They leave a tip for their waitress: twenty bucks on their twenty dollar meal. Stan tosses an arm around his brother’s shoulders as they walk out of the joint, snickering when they hear Darla’s surprised yelp at her tip. The antenna providing radio signal to the ship, now dented and bent from countless collisions with monsters in the air (and the occasional pelican), is stark against the white sky. The brothers approach the boat, their pride and joy, their home of one year. The dark wood has been buffed to a semblance of its original shine, save for the scars marking the sheen. Hand over shoulder, the brothers admire their home, the culmination of a lifetime’s dream.

The next morning, the anchor is drawn up and the tethers undone, the Stan O War II gliding into the red dappled water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for checking this out, I'm thrilled that you decided to give it a go. It's gonna be pretty long (at least 20 chapters for certain) so I hope you brought snacks.  
> Edit: minor location change to support an alteration later in the story. Barely worth noticing really.


	2. Chapter 2

As the sun approaches its midday apex, the brothers are hard at work. Managing a ship is a network of tasks usually shared amongst a crew, but the two aged men are shouldering the entire thing on their own, in addition to their scientific endeavours and the accompanied moments of combat. It’s no small ordeal, but over the course of the year, they had developed a way to manage it all. 

Ford stands at the bow of the vessel, steering it with the aid of a compass and a memorized copy of the map stored safely in his mind. The cold ocean air fills his lungs, dusting his tongue with the taste of salt. He shivers, out of expectation more than actual sensation: his coat provides perfectly adequate protection from the chill. Across the sky spreads a ceiling of white clouds, filtering the sunlight into a neutral glow and mostly eliminating shadows. Without them, it’s difficult to judge the time, leaving Ford only his compass to navigate with. Annoying, but a fun challenge.

They had left the Icelandic port three days ago, and are now en route to Canada. Arctic waters in that particular stretch are the prime region for anomalies, and most of the Stan O War II’s career has been spent bouncing between the two countries, encountering monster after monster in the frigid water. As such, an attack could be expected at any moment, and the brothers are constantly on guard. It’s an exciting sort of on guard, though; the sort of exhilaration one feels during a game of laser tag, rather than the perpetual fear Ford had stewed in during his first extended search for anomalies. He largely attributes the difference to the fact that, this time, he isn’t on his own. 

At least, not as completely. After all, he is alone on deck right now. Stan is back in the cabin, probably cooking, probably yammering into the radio. The two make it a habit to talk with their niece and nephew, who are always interested in the oceanic escapades. Ford made a mental note to pop in and check on him; if speaking to the kids is what Stan is up to, then Ford wants a turn at it too. Dipper will practically keel over in laughter when he hears about the waitress who believed that an Akkorokamui would be in the Arctic ocean. He chortles softly from thinking about it again. The general populace’s lack of knowledge of cryptids and monsters is truly incredible. Didn’t they realize how often their very realities were at risk? 

“Hey, Sixer!” shouts Stan, “Come chat!”

Ford cracks a grin and scurries to the cabin, tucking his compass into his breast pocket. “What have you told them so far?”

“Don’t worry, I saved the stuff about that waitress for you,” he says as he passes over the receiver, showing off his impeccable capabilities for guessing his brother’s thoughts. “I’ll keep an eye on things until you’re done.”

“We’re on course, so you just have to keep an eye out for obstacles,” Ford explains. Then, he holds the receiver to his mouth. “Hello?”

“Great Uncle Ford!” comes Dipper’s voice, the word “uncle” cleaved in two by a voice crack. Ford chuckles.

“Good to hear you again, Dipper! How are you and your sister?”

“We’re good! I’ve got all A’s, and Mabel—” He’s cut off by the sound of Mabel’s shouting in the background. “And Mabel wants to tell you about things herself.”

“That’s fine with me. Still liking high school?”

Dipper makes an uncertain sound. “It’s… It’s not too terrible. I mean, it’s always a bit hard to get invested in stuff the other kids find important after… you know… everything that happened.”

Ford hums sympathetically. “Yes, of course. You’ve seen things they couldn’t even dream of.”

“I mean, they probably could. It was called the nightmare realm.”

“Ha!” calls Mabel in the background. Ford smiles.

“Clever. Oh, I have one for you, too! We were getting dinner at a tavern in Iceland, and Stan and I decided to tell a story to our waitress. And—get this—I told her that we encountered an Akkorokamui as we were sailing from Greenland!”

Dipper bursts into laughter, as Ford had expected. “Really?! An Akkorokamui?! They live in Japan!”

“Yes, I know! It was just hilarious. We left her a 100% tip though, since we had so thoroughly pulled the wool over her eyes. You know, as apology for a humiliation she didn’t even realize she had undergone.”

“What sort of weird creatures HAVE you seen?” Dipper asks eagerly, clicking a pen a few times. 

“Nothing since we last spoke, I’m afraid. I’m expecting something any day now, though; we’re passing directly through the most active zone for these phenomena. Stanley is watching for things as we speak.”

“Let me take a turn, Dipper!” Mabel demands excitedly, snatching up the receiver so her voice comes through clearer. “Grunkle Ford!”

“Hello, Mabel. It’s so nice to hear from you again,” Ford says fondly.

“Have you been sleeping lots? You told me you would sleep more once you were out far on the water!” 

She had become something of a guardian after the events of the summer, when Stan had hesitantly explained to her what exactly the sort of stuff Ford had gone through would mean for him. She was mortified to hear about his difficulties with sleep in particular, immediately researching and memorizing countless statistics about the effects of sleep deprivation and techniques to alleviate the persistence of night terrors. 

“Well, Mabel, I’ve been doing alright, actually. There are still some… bad nights, of course, but I think I’ve been managing around five to six hours a night lately.” It would be very easy to lie to her now that she was no longer able to keep tabs on him herself, but something in Ford wouldn’t allow it. Lying to Mabel just isn’t something Ford can bring himself to do.

“Only five or six?” He can see her brows furrowed as she figures out how to categorize this information. “Well, that’s still not eight, but… Oh well, that’s really awesome, Grunkle Ford! You’re getting so much better!”

Ford rubs the back of his neck and says sheepishly, “Thank you, Mabel, I feel quite a bit better too.” She cheers for him happily.

“Grunkle Stan says you found some really cool stuff, way cooler than there is in Gravity Falls,” Mabel says, allowing a subject change after her excitement had ebbed. 

“Well, that may be an overstatement. Most sea monsters are just big octopi and serpents. We have seen a handful of different sorts of things though, things like prehistoric oceanic fauna and the occasional monster that’s entirely unique. Some of them defy description, really; we’re relying mostly on pictures we’ve gotten of them. Camera technology is really amazing these days!” Ford marvels.

“Do you think Dipper and I could ever go out sailing with you?” Dipper’s excited gasp can be plainly heard in the background. 

“Maybe we can do that next summer, if you kids keep getting good grades.” Mabel moans, and Ford laughs. “Come now, education is important!”

Stan pokes his head back into the cabin. “Hey, Poindexter! Willing to give me that thing back now?”

“Hey, you gave it to me,” Ford says, rolling his eyes. Then, he says to Mabel, “Stanley wants another turn. You be good, okay?”

“Of COURSE, Grunkle Ford!” she chirps, “Be safe!”

Ford smiles and passes off the phone. Stan immediately coos, “Hey there, Sweetie. Did Ford tell you and Dipper his story about the waitress?”

“He told Dipper, and the kid almost died laughing! Was it really that funny?” Mabel asks curiously.

“No, not really. It’s kind of a nerd joke, I think.”  
Mabel giggles, teasing a grin from Stan. 

“So we were stopped in Iceland a few days ago, and I got you and your brother little souvenirs. They’re in the mail for you, so keep an eye out.”

“Oh! What are they?”

“Wait and see, kiddo!”

Before Stan can get far in the conversation, Ford’s shout reaches the cabin. Then, he yells, “Stan, get up here! And bring the harpoon!”

Stan hops to his feet. “Sorry, Sweetie, I’ve gotta cut it off here. We’ll chat with you again soon.” He snatches the weapon and rushes out, finding Ford ripping a tentacle off the side of the boat. A wicked grin spreads across his cheeks.

Another giant octopus monster.

Those have become his favourite to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the ending was a lil bit abrupt, but it was supposed to be a quick cut. I might come back and edit it later though... It's just not my priority. Thanks again for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner is sandwiches this evening, cobbled together from the last loaf of bread, the now empty package of cheese, and the rest of the deli meat they’d bought in port. The taste is far from impressive, but the brothers barely notice; their attentions are elsewhere. This one, this monster, had been a big one, much bigger than the other large octopus creatures. It had taken not one, not two, but three solid harpoon lands to fell it, and when the thing finally went down, it nearly took the boat with it. They lost the body, having to slice the tentacles grasping the hull clean off to keep the Stan O War II from capsizing. It was disappointing, but they’d gotten more than enough looks at it to remember its ugly mug.

They also had a mug shot, courtesy the camera they were often bad about remembering to use.

Stan lugs the severed tentacles down into the cabin, bizarre fluid soaking his clothes. “Did you see how green this thing bleeds?” he asks, flopping them onto the workbench by the desk. An array of surgical tools is spread across its surface, slightly rusted from the briny air but otherwise well cared for. Large jars are held in a crate nearby, along with some plastic jugs of chemicals, all clearly and neatly labelled. Ford looks up from where he scrawls out notes in his steady hand. 

“Yes, I certainly did,” he says with a smile, leaning over to get a better look at the tentacles on the table. “Gloves, Stanley.”

Stan groans and pulls on a pair of rubber gloves, pausing to snap them against his wrists. “You know, if this thing had any diseases, we’ve gotten them already, Sixer. A pair of gloves won’t cure Giant Squid Pox or whatever it is you think we’ll catch.” He lugs the jugs of fluid up onto the table and gathers up an armada of measuring cups.

“You’re working with formaldehyde!” 

“Uh huh.” 

Ford pulls a flimsy mask on over his mouth and nose, then pointedly gestures to the box. Stan does the same before getting to work on the tentacles. Ford turns back to his notes, satisfied that Stan was approaching his task with caution. Even if he himself had been horrifically neglectful of safety precautions in his past, he wasn't about to unleash Stanley on a chemical that poisonous without taking efforts to prevent both their deaths. Despite having photographs of the monsters they’ve pursued, Ford still favours sketching out his observations in his notes. He glances at the picture pinned to the cork board hung by the desk, unable to deny that having the photographs to use as reference is far more convenient than using only his memory. 

The squid had been large and vicious, far more so than any other sea creature they had stumbled upon. As far as Ford is concerned, it’s the largest victory they’ve had so far.

GREEN BLOOD, he notes beside his drawing of the squid, DOES NOT SEEM TO CONGEAL WHEN EXPOSED TO AIR. VERY RUNNY. He twists his pen between his fingers while he thinks. Then, in a tidier, looping script, he writes, _this giant squid is highly aggressive, willing to charge ships that it happens to spot, rather than only ones that approach it. It grasps its target in huge tentacles, keeping it trapped with its powerful suction cups._ He pauses again to gather his thoughts. In the pause where his pen is not scritching away at the paper and he is not absorbed in his own work, he realizes that the room is silent. 

He looks over at his brother, who is supposed to be preserving the severed tentacles in a glass jar. He expects to hear the sounds of sloshing fluids, tools clanking together, and his brother idly humming to himself as he works. Silence doesn’t make sense. At least, it didn’t until Ford sees that Stan isn’t actually doing anything. 

“Stanley?” Ford asks confusedly. There’s no response, so he leans over in his seat and snaps his fingers in Stan’s ear. “Stanley, are you awake?”

After a few moments, Stan seems to snap out of it, blinking hard and looking around. He notices his brother’s perplexed face and laughs awkwardly. “Shit, did I zone out again on you?”

“Your daydreaming is getting a tad concerning, Stanley,” Ford comments dubiously. “Are you sleeping enough?”

Stan laughs properly. “Oh, that sure is rich coming from you, Poindexter!” 

Ford rolls his eyes. Stan had developed a habit of zoning out for short periods over the past year; it was never for long, and it didn’t seem to interfere with anything, so neither of them worried much about it. They could only assume it was a side effect of what had happened to him. Ford wasn’t thrilled with it, but if that was the only result, then it was certainly worth it. 

All of it was worth it.

He subtly rubs his wrists, scarred in a two inch band all around from burns. A matching mark wraps around his throat, hidden under the turtleneck of his sweater. Stan notices. 

“Do you think I should keep them to one jar, or split them up?” Stan asks with an extra dose of joviality injected into his voice, hoping to regain Ford’s attention and get his mind off of bad memories.

Ford furrows his brow as he thinks it through. “How many tentacles were left on it that we didn’t cut off?”

“Uh, at least another ten are still on the thing. Why do you ask? Isn’t it dead?”

Ford smirks, unseen aside from the crinkles at his eyes. “I doubt it. Better make it one jar, I’m sure we’ll be adding more to it soon.”

“Huh?”

“You saw how huge it was. There’s no way three harpoons are enough to kill it.” Ford turns back to his work and returns to his note taking.

“Then why the hell did it scatter?! It seemed pretty eager on wrecking us!”

“We cut off four of its hands. Wouldn’t you run?” 

Stan screws the lid onto the jar, slapping a label on it with the date and the size of the specimen. “Okay, okay, you’re right, Wise Guy. But why are you so sure we’ll be seeing it again?”

Ford shrugs. “I just have a feeling. After you’ve researched this sort of phenomena for as long as I have, you start to get a sense of things.”

Stan opens the cabin window to air out the strong chemical stench. “You wanna bet on it?” Ford turns back around to look at him. He can see from the quirk in Stan’s brow that he’s grinning. 

“You want to bet me that I’m incorrect? About paranormal phenomena?” Ford raises a brow. “Doesn’t that seem… a little unwise?”

“What? Are you afraid you’re wrong?” Stan leans on the wall and crosses his arms over his chest, exuding the air of the conman Ford often forgets he is. 

“Alright, I’ll gamble with you. What’s the wager?” Ford twirls his pen between his fingers, a calculating expression already plastered across his face. Stan doesn’t need to see under his mask to know that.

“Oh, nothing too serious. We’re all friends here.” He taps his fingers on his arm, pausing for effect assuredly. “Whoever wins gets full radio rights for two weeks.”

Ford drops the pen. “What? You’re seriously willing to not talk to the kids for two weeks over this?” He laughs. “This is ridiculous.”

Stan shrugs. “You don’t have to take it. I can’t blame you for thinking you might be wrong on this one. You are basing it off of nothing, after all.”

Ford huffs a little. So this is how he’s playing it. Exploiting the ego. He grits his teeth. As ridiculous as the stakes are, he can’t turn back from a challenge to his intellect. “Fine. Get the harpoon ready.”

Stan laughs. “You’d better hope that thing turns up quickly. We’re due to hit port this evening.”

“Yes. I know.” Ford caps his pen and stands. “I’m off to keep watch.”

“You sure you wouldn’t rather make a quick radio call? You know, since it’ll be your last one for two weeks?” 

Ford pulls his mask off. “No. But maybe you should.” He strides out onto the deck as confidently as he can manage, then immediately flops onto the railing and curses himself. That was not smart. A quick glance informs him that port is only about twenty minutes away, and by now, they can’t possibly be in deep enough waters to encounter anything besides fish. 

Stan, meanwhile, waves the air out the window to replace the awful chemical scent with ocean brine. He doesn’t actually intend to hold Ford to the wager. He stretches and plops down in Ford’s desk chair, glancing over the drawings he’d done. Artistic skill was far from Ford’s most lauded talents, but it was undeniable that he could draw. Quite impressively, in fact. 

He shuffles through the papers Ford has filled with notes and sketches. A year of exploration has given him a good pile of information on all sorts of wild things. The creatures in Gravity Falls had a considerably smaller amount of sea serpents and squids among their population than the arctic seems to have. And since they left Oregon, they haven’t encountered a single gnome. It almost feels wrong to have gone so long without one turning up.

Ford’s footsteps pace across the deck. Stan chuckles softly. Maybe he shouldn’t have offered the gambit, but he couldn’t help it. Things had gotten too orderly. He needed some antics again. As exciting as fending off sea monsters is, the considerable amount of down time between bouts had proven to be a bit tedious. The pacing outside the cabin is inconsistent, shifting between rapid movement across deck and long pauses. Stan pulls his hat down a little and rests his head on the back of the chair, resolving to snooze the remaining time until they reach shore. His eyes droop and things grow quiet.

And then he’s tossed out of the chair by something ramming into the boat. Ford yells excitedly, “Stanley! Get up here!”

Stan picks himself up in disbelief. “No fucking way…” he mutters while rushing out on deck. Ford is leaning over the handrail, the harpoon gun on the ground by his side, a huge grin pasted across his face. He points energetically into the water. Hesitantly leaning over the rail beside his brother, Stan looks out, following Ford’s gesture. Just before it vanishes into the depths, Stan sees the giant body of the cephalopod, its stump tentacles and some green blood trailing behind it. Ford laughs triumphantly at Stan’s dropped jaw.

“I knew it! I knew it would be back!”

“Holy shit…” 

“I suppose that makes me the victor!” 

Stan looks up at him. “I wasn’t actually going to hold you to the wager, you know,” he says quickly. Ford raises a brow.

“Well that’s a little convenient, isn’t it?”

“Ford, come on.”

“It was your idea, Stanley.” He pleasantly settles himself at the steering apparatus. “Now help me bring the ship into port.”

Stan grumbles to himself all the way through the process.This had not gone how it was supposed to, and now he was being penalized for no good reason. He wasn’t going to hold Ford to it because he knew it was unfair, why should he have to deal with it? Nothing about this is reasonable. 

As they walk off the ship, Ford snickers and says, “Of course I’m not going to hold you to it, Stanley. But you remember that I was right next time.”

Stan couldn’t give a single shit about who was right as long as he had his radio access.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to keep up this pace of at least one update a week, but I can't promise anything due to my lack of ability to see the future. Thank you all so much for the positive feedback so far; I hope you will enjoy what I have in store for you. Thank you again for reading!  
> Edited for typo fixing :/


	4. Chapter 4

The small, Canadian port bustles with activity, far more activity than one would expect from such a small village. Stan and Ford shoulder their day bags and watch as workers haul huge crates of fish around. The air reeks, the stench so thick it can be tasted. Dock hands shout to each other as they unload the fish from four large vessels, practically flooding the port with dead sea creatures. 

“It’s a lot busier here than I thought it would be,” Ford comments, looking into one of the crates of fish.

“Four fucking giant fishing boats came in at once,” a dock hand says, flopping a net of fish down on the damp ground. His clothing is soaked by salt water. “Now’s the time to order fish and chips, they’ll be dirt fucking cheap.”

The brothers share a glance. Stan shrugs. “I could go for some fish and chips.” Ford turns to the dockhand.

“Where would we ask about renting a space in port for a few days?” he asks. Maybe it was time they took more than one day off and stayed here for a little while. 

The dockhand waves towards a building by the water. “Ask in there.” 

Being careful not to plow into busy workmen, the brothers approach the building. It’s a waterlogged, wooden shack, only half on land—the other half kept out of the sea on a set of short stilts. A life preserver hangs from the side, clearly more for the look than any actual utility. When they open the door, a bell announces their arrival. 

“Welcome to the port administration office,” drones the person behind the desk disinterestedly. 

“We’re interested in renting a space for a few days,” Stan says while Ford browses the brochures set up along the walls.

“How many days?”

“Uh… Three or four, I guess. We’re not totally sure yet.”

“I’ll put you down for three. You can pay for more if it comes to it.”

Ford picks up a brochure on local culture. A smiling man holding a fish is on the front. On the inside flap, pictures of sheep posing with overly happy farmers are separated by text in English and French claiming the port to be “Newfoundland's most scenic village!” Other images of the thick forest and huge cliffs pepper the display. 

Stan comes over and claps a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “I bought us three days,” he says.

“Yes, I could hear you. This is Newfoundland's most scenic village, apparently.” Ford hands over the brochure. “Look at those forests. I wonder what’s in there…”

“Some deer, mostly,” pipes in the worker.

Stan pockets the brochure and tugs on Ford’s arm. “C’mon, let’s go get some of that fish while it’s still cheap.”

Ford rolls his eyes but lets Stan tow him out. “I’m sure there are some interesting things in those woods,” he says excitedly. 

“You know, not every forest is full of gnomes. Sometimes they’re just full of boring shit like deer and bears,” Stan retorts, “Now let’s find a good pub. I’m starved.”

The village doesn’t have much in the way of commercial locations. There’s a little grocery store, a few market stands offering fish and produce, a pharmacy, and a few other little shops. A handful of restaurants are scattered about the street. The one that captures their attention is a little bar about a block away from the docks. They can see quite clearly through the windows that it’s teeming with sailors. Stan elbows Ford. 

“How about that?” 

Ford adjusts his cracked glasses. “Looks like it’s rather well revered.”

“Is that nerd for yes?” Stan laughs and walks to the door with his arm slung over Ford’s shoulders. 

The tables are all filled with rowdy fishermen, likely on their first break in weeks. The hostess predicts a twenty minute wait, and when Stan insists he’s too hungry for that, she points them to the bar to search for empty spots. With some luck and persistence, they snatch up two stools side by side and order dinner and beer. The little bar is filled to the brim with life as the drunk, ruddy sailors laugh and shout. After being on their own for so long, the excitement of the crowd is exhilarating, and the brothers find themselves growing rather tipsy as well. Stan in particular seems swept up by the mood and eager to join in the nonspecific festivities.

“Do you even know how many fucking squids there are out here?!” he shouts at whatever sailor will lend him an ear. “I swear we’ve seen at least twenty! And they’re always HUGE!” 

Ford laughs but doesn’t get involved. Instead, he nibbles on his dinner and observes, skillfully juggling a coin through his fingers. Stories of huge fish and aggressive ocean birds are being traded throughout the room. It’s all fairly standard fisherman lore, all matters of “it was THIS BIG!” 

Then, his perceptive ear catches something more unusual.

“It carried off my sheep! For three months now, it’s been taking them!” It had come from a rather piercing voice, the kind of voice that conjures images of a mangy, slightly detached hermit. 

“Uh huh. Sure it did, Howard,” replies a voice laced thickly with condescension. The rolling eyes don’t need to be seen to be known. 

“Looky here, you! I’m telling the truth! Something’s making off with my animals! And it’ll come back tomorrow night!”

Ford looks around for the source of the conversation. In a few moments, he notices a rather frazzled and scruffy man in his older years trying to talk to a very clearly disinterested sailor. He grabs Stan’s shoulder.

“What is it, Sixer?” Stan asks. His cheeks are rouged from drink and laughter.

“Come with me,” Ford commands, pulling Stan away from the bar. Despite his whining, they navigate the crowd with difficulty.

“Where are you going? We’re going to lose our seats!”

“You were finished anyway.”

“Ford! What’s going on?!” He burps. Ford grimaces.

He doesn’t bother to explain. Instead, he forces his way through the excited fishermen until they’ve made their way down the bar to the location of the conversing hermit and his vanishing sheep.

“Hello, I couldn’t help but overhear,” Ford says, wasting no time, “You said something has been making off with your sheep?”

Relieved to finally have an engaged audience, the old man nods hard. “Yes, yes! Every month for the last three months it has!” 

Stan recognizes the look on Ford’s face; it’s an excited determination that only a new lead on a monster can bring him. He groans. There is no rest for an investigator these days.

“Can you tell us about it?” Ford asks, his voice brimming with interest.

“Not much I’m afraid, I haven’t managed to catch sight of it yet! It makes its way into my pasture in the night, rips up the fence, claws the ground to bits, and steals one of my flock. I can tell it was the same beast from those claw marks; they’re too deep to have been a wolf or a fox or the sort!”

Ford nods thoughtfully, running through possibilities. He is still rather new to the lore of the arctic, having kept his studies isolated to Oregon for so long. “Fascinating…”

Stan attempts to end this exchange. “It’s probably just a bear or something. C’mon Ford, maybe if we’re lucky, they’ll still be holding our—” 

“You said it will come back tomorrow,” Ford cuts him off. “How can you know that?”

“Because, sonny, it only comes when the moon is full!”

Stan frowns and glances at Ford. His eyes are aglow with excitement again. That can only mean one thing. He has to do something, and quickly.

“Look, Ford, take it easy. It’s nothing.”

“Only comes when the moon is full, you say! Let me guess, tomorrow night is…” Ford inquires, sounding thrilled.

“A full moon, yes! I’m not sure what to do, I can’t afford to keep losing my animals!” The old man seems properly nervous, expecting something terrible to befall him or his herd. Stan can’t help but feel sorry for him. Maybe it would be good if they could offer him some help, trying to figure out what’s getting at his poor sheep.

“Stanley! What do you say we lend this man a hand with his very interesting problem?”

Stan crosses his arms over his puffed out chest. “I don’t know. I’m not sure…” He trails off, as if considering the options. For one moment. Then two. Then thirty seconds have passed.

“Not sure…” Ford prompts, awaiting the second half of his statement. When it doesn’t come, he tears his glance off the man and looks to his brother. Out of it. He swallows, then snaps his fingers in Stan’s face. “Stanley? Stanley, not sure if what?”

This one lasts for almost a full minute. Stan blinks hard as he comes around, looking confused. He pieces together what must’ve happened and laughs it off. “Oh man, I must be beat! I think I fell asleep standing up there!”

Ford smiles uneasily. “Perhaps you shouldn’t drink so much, Stanley.”

Stan waves it off. “Nah, I’m just fine. You were talking about chasing mystery creatures, right? Just say yes to it and get the details. I think I’m going to go back to the boat and turn in early.”

“I’ll come with you.” Ford turns back to the old man. “Where can we meet you tomorrow?”

The man seems loathe to share his address to strangers, but with some cajoling, he offers up the location of his farm. Then, he scuttles out of the bar. The brothers leave not long after, having left the money for their meal on the counter, in cash as always. Ford keeps an eye on Stan as he wobbles back to the boat, resolving to keep closer tabs on how much the man drinks. It cannot be good for his brain. Stan brushes off all attempts at concern with laughter.

 

In the dead of the night, for the first time in a long while, Stan is the one snapping awake in a cold sweat from a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing important in the notes just time; I just wanted to make sure I thank everyone for reading again, as always!  
> Edit: I changed the location to avoid inaccuracy. Thanks for correcting me!


	5. Chapter 5

Stan had never been the sort to discuss things like dreams or emotions or potentially incriminating backstories. Men of his craft rarely are. A propensity for manipulation and swindling requires a certain dismissal of these traits, and multiple decades of internalization don't vanish overnight. So, when the sun had lazily dragged itself up into the sky and Stan was still staring at the ceiling restlessly, the last thing he wanted to do was tell Ford about it.

“He doesn't need to worry about that,” he tells himself as he gets dressed, having decided that being out of bed at 5 AM was better than what he had been doing. “He has enough on his own, without me adding to shit.” He pulls his red beanie on and plops down at the desk, kicking his feet up onto its surface. 

What had it even been about? 

He furrows his brow as he thinks. But, try as he might, Stan cannot seem to recall the dream that had kept him awake. 

He hears footsteps behind him. He frowns and twists around to see Ford stepping into the room, dressed and looking quite comfortably awake. 

“Sixer? What are you doing up so early?” he asks, standing. 

Ford frowns. “It's ten, Stanley. That's hardly early.”

Stan blinks. Where had the time gone? How had he lost track of five hours? Ford looks bemused, worried, and Stan quickly jumps to alleviate the concern. “I must've dozed off and not realized. Age, you know?”

Ford looks at him for a moment, then nods a little and turns away to sift through the cash in his wallet. “We have that lead to look into tonight, but I figured we could just hang around town until then,” he says.

“Sounds good to me!” Stan enthuses, tossing an arm around his brother’s shoulders and walking out with him.

The day is split between the boat and the town, seeing the two preparing for the evening to come. They sample the other restaurants along the port, enjoying fluffy diner waffles, hot soups and sandwiches, and yet more fish and chips. With most of their time spent on the water, eating whatever food they could bring along with them, time on land has consistently meant devouring as many freshly made meals as they can get their hands on. The fishing town’s seafood is about as fantastic as they could’ve hoped, and they’re sure they’ll be spoiled for fish and chips for the remainder of their lives.

They also search for souvenirs, for dongles that can be sent to the kids. The kitschy knick knack shops are favourites for this purpose, and the men spend a good hour in there, laughing cheerfully over the items available and selecting their gifts. This time, it’s a sweater for Mabel bearing a sheep wearing sunglasses, unanimously and instantly selected. For Dipper, Ford insists upon the USB flash drive shaped like a fish. 

“He’ll love it! Look at how refined those scales are, and it holds 10 gigabytes! I’m pretty sure that’s probably a lot!” he declares, refusing to even consider the clip on book light, the book of fishing puns, or the fabric thing calling itself a laptop sleeve. “But let’s buy the book for ourselves,” he adds five minutes later, almost in a mutter, before tucking it into their stack of items. 

At about 8 o’clock, they return to the boat with their purchases. Copies of some of the recent notes are made via the polaroid camera, and the resulting photographs are compiled into an envelope. Then, they take a picture together, with difficulty—It takes almost half a roll of film to get one that has them both in frame. The good one also goes in the envelope. 

They gather together a couple of backpacks, stuffing in two blankets, four cameras, eight extra rolls of film, a couple packages of jerky, Stan’s brass knuckles, Ford’s ray gun, some flashlights, and Ford’s notebook. After double and triple checking their supply collection, they shoulder their bags and exit the Stan O War II, bidding it goodnight.  
One never knows what will transpire on a monster hunt.

Stan had jotted down the strange farmer’s address the night before. His drunken script is barely legible, sloping off to the side and almost leaving the napkin it’s scrawled on entirely; it takes a lot of squinting and debate to tease out the meaning. Consulting the map printed in their brochure informs them that the location is about a twenty minute walk from town, the property nestled in a patch of land between some hills and a thatch of forest. The sun has begun to set, painting the sky orange and darkening the shadows around them.

“So, this is the place,” Stan comments, squinting at the small, shack-like house beside the pastures.  
Ford nods, twirling a pen between his fingers. “Think he’ll remember us?”

“Who knows? With old coots like that, anything’s possible.” Stan raps hard on the door to the shack, feeling no need to build suspense. Ford scans the area around the front of the house, looking for any signs of wildlife.

The door barely opens, allowing a tiny sliver of light to escape the house. Stan frowns and Ford looks up. “What did you do?” he asks, his brow knitting together.

“Nothing, I just knocked!” Stan insists, “It must’ve been open already.”

“Odd…” Ford pushes on it lightly, and they watch it swing open without any resistance. They share a glance. “So. Do we go in or do we forget him and just start looking out for what he was talking about?”

Stan answers with action, stepping into the house. “I want to check this place out,” he says, looking around. Ford groans and follows, displeased with the gruff method but too intrigued to fight it properly.  
The inside of the shack is in shambles, about as much so as one would expect from someone of questionable sanity. Pictures hang crooked and dusty, books lay splayed across tables, and random papers are strewn over every surface in the house. Some articles of clothing, mainly jackets and hats, are scattered about the place.

“Do you think he gets cold a lot?” Stan asks, picking up one of the jackets.

“If he leaves his front door open, it’s certainly possible…” Ford replies. Something about the situation is making him uneasy. One hand hovers over his right hip, where his favoured gun is nestled in a holster on his belt. He would be hard pressed to recommend paranoia, but being excessively jumpy and on his toes is the only reason he’s still alive at all. 

Ford splits from Stan to examine the kitchen. The pantry doors are all open to different degrees. He skirts his fingers over the wood, searching them for something—what that is, he isn’t sure. Sensitive fingertips pick up on a detail his eyes had first dismissed. He pauses, pushes his cracked glasses up his nose, and peers closely at the wood. Long, thin scratches line the insides of all of the doors. A shiver runs down his spine.

“Hey Sixer, come over here!” Stan calls, making Ford jump. He finds his brother scrutinizing the floorboards in the front hallway. “Check this out,” he says, running his fingers along them. Ford stoops over and does the same. More scratches.

“The insides of the pantry doors are in the same state,” Ford murmurs thoughtfully. Stan pops the lens cap off the camera hung around his neck and takes a few pictures. “Whatever this thing is… I think it was in the house.”

They straighten up and step back outside, leaving the door slightly ajar. The sunset had been brief, and dusk hit hard; it’s dark enough out that the men feel it necessary to pull out their flashlights. The next logical step seemed to be to explore the pastures. The strange man’s comment about gouges in the dirt stuck out in Ford’s mind, and Stan wondered if they might find footprints.

The pastures are unimpressive at best; the fences enclosing the patches of grass are short and flimsy, and the areas themselves don’t look much different from the surrounding land. The sheep have retreated to their shelter and ignore the brothers as they scrutinize their living space. 

“Is there any way those gouges he was talking about would still be here?” Stan asks doubtfully. Ford shakes his head.

“Unlikely. But maybe this thing has already been here.”

“So we’re looking for fresh ones.”

“I suspect those are all we can hope to find, anyway. Any old ones will have been covered up or—” 

He cuts his remark short with a yelp when he puts his foot down and does not find the ground. He stumbles, almost falling over. Stan jumps.

“What is it, what happened?” he demands, his flashlight beam bouncing all over the place. Ford picks himself up sheepishly, retrieving his own dropped light.

“I stepped in a ditch,” he explains, taking a minute to regain his bearings. Stan examines the ground to find the perpetrator. He gulps.

“Poindexter, I think you found what we were after,” he says, snapping a picture. 

The ground is marred by scratches much like the ones from in the house, but much larger, thicker, deeper. Whatever made them was in a rush here, more urgent, or possibly weighed down. 

“Looks like we were too late to save his sheep,” Ford says, pushing his glasses, dislodged by the stumble, back up his nose.

“Yeah. Guess so.”

The two look off in the direction the gouges point. Into the woods. Of course. They both sigh.

“Ready to go hiking, Stanley?” Ford asks.

“Oh, goody.”

 

If the dusk had packed a serious punch out in the open, it shoots a cannon in the woods. The thick canopy of evergreen needles and deciduous leaves blocks out the limited light, keeping the forest bathed in darkness. As it gets later, the darkness grows bluer and the flashlight beams seem more and more intense by comparison. The brothers walk carefully, keeping one eye on the ground in front of them. No one wants an injury at this point.

They’re following tracks. The gouges they’d seen on the property, to be precise. The strange prints seem to stick to the logical path, something one wouldn’t expect from a wild animal. Between this odd pattern and the scratches inside the house, what’s going on seems pretty obvious for them both.

“So…” Stan eventually asks after a good half hour of avoiding the question, “We’ve got a werewolf on our hands.”

“Seems that way,” Ford replies, stepping over a log across the faintly carved out path. “Watch your step.” 

“We don’t have any experience with those, do we?”

“No, not at all.”

“Great,” Stan says, pulling his brass knuckles from his bag and slipping them on. “Think we’ll run into this thing soon?”

Ford pauses to look up at the sky. Partially obscured by flora but shining stubbornly on is the full moon, approaching its high point. He nods. “Unless it has some sort of ‘not until midnight’ rule, I’d say we’ll bump into it any time now.” He returns to walking, keeping one hand hovering over his gun again. 

They’re fairly far out into the woods, maybe a half mile or so. Careful observation and periodic picture taking has kept their pace on the slow side, but despite that, they’re certainly out too far for anyone in town to hear something like screams for help. It's just the two of them, their weapons, and their wits against whatever they happen to find. Intimidating, frightening, but exhilarating all the same. 

“It’s been a real long time since I went on a midnight hike last,” Stan comments, smiling some. Ford raises an eyebrow and looks back at him.

“You’ve done it before?”

“Yeah, sure, loads of times! Just not so recently.”

Ford smiles as well. “I can’t say I’m surprised. There isn’t really much in the way of hiking space on the ocean.”

Stan laughs. “Course there is, you pace all over the damn boat!”

“Oh, come now. What warranted a personal attack?” 

“What attack? I’m just stating a fact, Sixer!” 

Ford rolls his eyes. Stan claps a hand on his shoulder, prompting another smile from his brother. “Is this everything you dreamed of, Stanley?” Ford asks. 

Stan’s hold on his shoulder softens. “Pretty damn close,” he replies quietly, a vaguely dreamy tint to his voice. Ford glances at him, seeing a matchingly faint smile on his face. “You?”

Ford nods a little. “Can’t imagine anything I wanted more as a kid than something like this,” he says. It’s mostly true. The only other thing he really wanted was to be normal. 

Some dreams aren’t meant to come true.

Stan lets go of Ford’s shoulder and hangs back to take another picture of a track. It’s a cover, an excuse to not have to be standing too close when he admits what he’s about to admit. “Sixer…” he says. The brand on the back of his shoulder twinges as memories bounce around his tired mind. He can see the vivid light of the portal, he can hear the screams as someone is lost within it. A dull ache appears between his eyes, the sort of headache that insists it’s time to take a nap. He hadn’t slept well last night at all.

“Yes, Stanley?” Ford asks, not looking back. He had a few notes to jot down about the tracks, how the monster seemed to have enough humanity in it to stick to the trail rather than diverge from it and venture into the trees. Stan doesn’t respond. Ford looks back and sees him scrutinizing a footprint. The camera clicks as he takes a picture. Ford frowns. “Hello? Stanley?” he prompts. When there’s still no response, Ford turns fully and closes the short distance between himself and Stan. “Did you forget what you were going to say?”

He searches his mind for an occasion in which Stan had performed a task while in these little moments of blankness. He cannot recall one. A shiver runs down his spine.

“Stanley, what’s going on with you?” Ford asks. He shivers again. “Are you awake?”  
It suddenly occurs to Ford that the shivers are not because he’s unnerved, but because he is being watched. 

The moment he realizes it, something strikes him powerfully from the back, tossing him into the air. He rams into a tree and hits the ground crumpled. Agony shoots up from his right hip, right under his gun holster. An instinctive scream erupts from his chest.

Stan snaps out of his lapse just in time to hear the beast howl. He jumps backward, landing on his ass and scooting backward. 

The monster is up on hind legs for its howl, making itself about seven feet tall. Patchy tufts of grey fur cover its body. Frayed bits of torn fabric cling to it. When it falls onto all fours again, its height is reduced to around five feet, and its face is more plainly visible. Its misshapen muzzle is pulled back into a menacing snarl, three inch teeth like bloody daggers bared. 

Stan’s brass knuckles are far from a suitable weapon. 

He grapples with panic to stagger to his feet, still backing away from the monster. It slowly advances, keeping the distance between them even. Stan wracks his brain desperately for an idea.

“W-whoa there,” he stammers slowly, his voice strained and quiet from fright. The monster emits a low, gurgling growl in response. “N… N… Nice… dog…?” He curls his shaking fingers into white knuckled fists. 

He hears a pained moan from a short distance away. A cold dread floods his heart as he realizes his panic had pushed Ford from his mind. 

Stan raises his fists as the dread turns to anger. He scans the clearing. Ford is slumped against a thick tree. He can only see the man’s boots; his dropped flashlight illuminates no other part of him. Stan swallows hard.

He lands a hard sucker punch to the side of the monster’s skull. 

It seems to stun it, buying Stan the moment he needs to scramble towards his brother. He has only made it halfway when a furious growl comes from behind him. He doesn’t stop his mad dash, even as he hears the monster begin to pursue.

A blinding flash and a deafening blast fill the air. The monster lets out a startled squeak, signifying its injury. Stan scoops the flashlight off the ground and looks back in time to see it limping quickly into the trees, leaving behind a trail of blood. He holds still, panting, shaking. Then, he looks back at Ford. He grips his gun so tightly that his knuckles are white. His face is even more ghastly pale, bearing a look of determination despite his laboured, pained breathing.

Stan looks down and sees that his brother’s leg is not where it should be. 

“D-Damn it, Sixer, your leg!” he curses.

Ford’s voice is thin; he clearly struggles to maintain control over himself. “S-Stanley… You have to pop it back in p-place…”

Stan grimaces. No part of him wants to do that. “Just… shove it back in?” he asks with a tone of disgust. Ford nods a little, dropping the gun so he won’t accidentally fire it. 

"Q-quickly, come on,” he insists. Sweat appears on his furrowed brow.

Stan gathers his strength, his nerve, and his love for his brother. Do it quick, he tells himself on loop. Then, he holds his breath and shoves hard. Ford barely restrains a scream by biting on his hand. Blood wells up.  
The sound of it was what bothered Stan the most; a loud, unsettling pop. He trembles as he sinks back on his haunches, giving Ford some space. “Ford… This is pretty serious… I think we should get you to a hospital,” Stan says softly, trying not to startle him. Ford shakes his head.

“I’m fine…” he insists, breathing slowly. “Had much worse than this…” 

“Worse than knocking your leg out…?”

Ford nods again. He shakily wipes his brow on his sleeve. Stan watches quietly, unsure of what to do. He plays the events back in his mind. He had stopped to examine a footprint. He readied the camera to take a picture. He asked Ford a question. At least, he’d started to. Something had stopped him… Then the monster is suddenly in front of him. It didn’t make sense. Ford should’ve seen it. It makes no sense that he hadn’t. 

That left only one possibility.

Steep, thick dread colours Stan’s voice as he asks, “I didn’t…” He clears his throat. “This isn’t my fault, is it?”

Ford doesn’t answer. An answer in itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this one took a fair bit longer. That's what happens when the chapters get wordier.  
> Anyways, I just wanted to pop in and reassure you all that everything is totally and completely fine. I swear it on the "angst" tag.  
> Thank you so much for reading, as always. ;3


	6. Chapter 6

“Ford, this is ridiculous,” Stan says yet again. He’s getting tired of repeating himself, but his stubborn brother still isn’t listening. 

“Shut it, Stanley,” he hisses through clenched teeth. He had sat slumped against the tree for about ten minutes, then asked his brother to retrieve a large, sturdy stick. With the stick in hand, Ford hauled himself to his feet, his injured leg quivering under him. Stan had protested, and he continues to protest, but nothing is getting through Ford’s thick, determined skull. He had decided he would hobble back to town on his own, and he’d be damned before he gave up. 

“You knocked your whole leg out of its damn socket, Ford!” Stan cries, sticking as close to him as possible without riding on his shoulders. “How the hell are you even walking on that?!”

“With the stick,” he replies, “Now please. Keep the light on the ground. Don’t want to trip.” His voice is tense, almost too tense to listen to comfortably. Stan cringes.

“What if that thing comes back?!”

“Shoot it again.”

Stan hooks his arm around Ford’s shoulder to provide extra support. Ford glances at him, the tiniest of thankful grins pulling at his pale cheeks. Stan nods a little, and they make their way down the path. 

The moon overhead reaches its apex, signaling midnight. The brothers pause, waiting. Slowly, gradually, rising out of the ground and into the air, comes a howl. They listen, entranced by awe and worry. A shiver runs down each of their spines. 

“Let’s… let’s try to… go a bit faster…” Ford grunts.

“No way I’m rushing you, Sixer. Have your gun ready.” He curls his fingers into fists without removing his supportive arm. This time, he wouldn’t hesitate to punch the beast. Ford grips his gun tighter. It’s in his left hand, the right one taken up by the stick. He swallows hard. Shooting with his non-dominant hand was a skill he had always struggled to develop, although he had forced himself to reach semi-competence after a past injury. 

The nightmare realm didn’t care if his hand was crushed or not. 

This monster won’t care if it’s free.

Moonlight streams through the tree branches more persistently now, alleviating the deep darkness ever so slightly. It feels more like a threat than an aid; a reminder of what lurks behind them. What could appear again at any moment. Ford shivers. 

“You okay, buddy? You’re not gonna pass out on me, are you?” Stan asks, having felt the tremble that ran through his brother’s injured body.

Ford shakes his head. “I feel like... we’re being watched,” he grunts. Stan looks over his shoulder, his flashlight beam skirting quickly across the trees to the rear. Nothing.

“It’s just us still.”

Ford twists around to look as well. The feeling is growing more and more persistent, weighing down his chest with heavy dread. Stan again skirts the flashlight over them so he can see more clearly. Still nothing. 

Then why is he so sure something has an eye glued to them?

“I don’t like this…” he mutters, turning back around and shivering again.

Something occurs to Stan. “Maybe you’re going into shock,” he says worriedly, “I think I should carry you.”

“Don’t you dare, Stanley—” Ford tries to protest, but to no avail. Stan hauls him up over his shoulder with a grunt.

“God, Poindexter, you’re heavy,” he grumbles. Ford squirms, but only a little—fighting it too hard would jostle his sore leg.

“Put me down this instant!” he hisses, lightly thumping his fists on Stan’s back. 

“No way, I’m carrying you directly to the hospital.” Was there even a hospital here? He doubted it. Maybe they’d have to phone in a helicopter. That might be kind of cool. Even if it was for a terrible reason, a helicopter ride might be a pretty good time. 

He blinks. 

Had that huge tree been there? Wasn’t he walking towards a few smaller ones a second ago?

“Why aren’t you answering me?” Ford asks, sounding flustered. Stan searches his mind for what his brother had said. 

“What do you mean?” he asks uncertainly.

“I told you there isn’t a hospital in town,” Ford answers. He isn’t struggling anymore. He grips his gun tightly. “I said it three times, Stanley.”

“I, uh… I didn’t hear you, I guess,” Stan says uneasily. 

Ford swallows hard. “You were still walking,” he mutters, “Like you were on autopilot or something.”

“Hm.” In no way, shape, or form does Stan want to discuss this. His little periods of zoning out are beginning to unnerve him. They’re his answer to Ford’s scars, it would seem. But the scars aren’t getting worse with time. 

He searches for something to discuss, something not at all connected to last summer. Fortune provides him exactly that in the form of another howl rising into the air from the earth. 

This one is much closer.

“Damn it,” Ford mutters, clutching his gun in both hands. “Put me down. You’re going to need both hands.”

Stan can’t argue with that. He slowly, carefully sets his brother on the ground, stuffing the stick into his hand. Ford grimaces while steadying himself, and Stan shifts into a defensive stance. They keep walking, but tenderly, trying not to make a sound, lest they cover up a needed cue that they’re being pursued. 

Eventually, mercifully, the thick trees come to an end, and the path leads them over the bumpy but open ground. The little house is in sight. A grin cracks across Stan’s face, and he scoops Ford back up. 

“H-Hey!” Ford yelps, almost dropping his gun. 

“Can it, Sixer!” Stan retorts, a relieved laugh in his voice as he dashes towards the place. He kicks open the door, glad they had left it ajar.

“Stanley, we can’t stay here! It’s that thing’s house!” 

“There’s no way you can walk all the way back to town, and I doubt any cab will want to come get us at this hour. And if the old guy really is the thing, then he won’t be back until morning anyway.” Stan flops his brother (carefully) onto the living room couch, then goes to the kitchen, searching the scratched pantries for food. 

Ford groans and drapes his arm over his eyes. “Please tell me you’re not robbing him.”

“I’m not! I’m only taking a box of cereal and some bread, that’s not ROBBING,” Stan replies, pouring out a bowl of sugary corn flakes. 

“How is that not robbing?!”

“Because, it only costs about $10.” Stan tosses Ford a few slices of bread. He accepts them resentfully.

Then, he adds in a mutter, “Does he have any peanut butter…?”

Stan grins. “What was that, Poindexter? I didn’t catch it.”

Ford groans. “Does he have peanut butter?” he asks louder. Stan snickers.

“Encouraging a robbery, are you?” he says, bringing the jar over. Ford glowers at him while swiping it and putting it to use. Stan rolls his eyes. “He probably has some painkillers, you know.”

“Now you want to take his medications.”

“Pretend to hate it all you want, Sixer, but you’re still eating the peanut butter.” Stan locates a bottle of pills and fishes a few out, bringing them to his brother with a glass of water. Ford swallows them begrudgingly, but with no resistance. Although he’d never admit it, the pain was still difficult to manage. Stan gently pats his shoulder. “Take a nap, okay?”

Ford sighs. “If I do that… Will the guy still have possessions…?”

Stan laughs. “Yes, Ford, he’ll still have possessions. I was gonna sleep too, in fact.”

Ford yawns and nods. “Good plan…”

“Uh huh.” 

 

Ford wakes up to the sun hitting his face with all the force of a baseball bat. He groans and sits up slowly, the stiffening pain in his hip slowing his movements. As his eyes adjust to the light, he notices Stan watching the window closely. 

“Stanley?” he yawns, “What are you doing?”

“Watching for that guy…” he says, squinting, “I figured he’d come back any time now…”

Ford gets up slowly, restraining a sound of pain when weight comes onto his injured leg. “He’s probably confused…”

Stan glances up and jumps to his feet, scurrying to his brother’s aid. “We’re getting you taken care of today, buddy, like it or not,” he says while taking him to a chair. Ford sits down with a groan.

“There’s no hospital in this area, Stanley,” Ford says with a sigh.

“We’ll figure something out.”

Ford rolls his eyes. A mindless glance out the window makes him sit straight up. “Guess who,” he says. Stan hurries to it and cracks a little grin. 

“Looks like we have a client to meet,” he says, helping Ford back up to his feet. With the stick back in hand, Ford and Stan make their way out onto the road. The rumpled, confused man staggers to them, looking dazed. His clothes are in tatters.

“I musta… Musta been sleep walking,” he says, rubbing his temples. The brothers share a glance. 

“Actually, you’re a werewolf. The thing making off with your sheep? That’s you,” Stan says bluntly. Ford elbows him hard.

“E… Excuse me?” The man looks them over, as if analyzing their sanity. “Are you pulling my leg?”

“My brother, although tactless, is telling the truth,” Ford says, “We came to check things out and followed the tracks you described into the woods… A quadrupedal wolf monster wearing those clothes met us.”

The man wears a blank facial expression at first, then, surprisingly, nods a little. “I… I s’ppose that makes sense…”

Stan balks. “You… You believe that. Just like that, you’re willing to accept that you’re a werewolf.”

The man shrugs. “I thought it might be aliens or something of that sort, so this is something of a relief to be honest. At least I can do stuff to prevent me from making off with them! Tie myself to a chair or somethin’ of that nature.”

The brothers are silent. Of all the reactions to this news possible, passive acceptance and casual understanding were the last ones they expected. He was supposed to be startled or in disbelief or sad or anything other than passively accepting and even relieved. 

“Say, I didn’t mess up your hip, did I?” The man asks, gesturing to Ford’s walking stick. 

“Well, yes, your… your monster form injured my leg,” he says slowly. Even if it was beyond weird, maybe this reaction was… preferable? Strange but preferable.

“Right sorry to hear that,” he says with a smile, “You can use my phone to get ahold of some help if you want. I can offer breakfast too, as a thanks for coming to figure stuff out.”

Stan shares a rather sheepish glance with Ford, who returns a look of a more accusatory nature. “Uh, yeah, thanks. We’d like that.”

Ford smirks a little. “Do you have any peanut butter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Okay, okay, I was a little worried that I might not make the week goal, but here we are! As always, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy.


	7. Chapter 7

The trip to the hospital wasn’t nearly as exciting as Stan had hoped. The men’s age was well worried over, and Ford was saddled with countless cautions about the severity of his injury. He waved it all off. He had been through worse; this small issue was nothing to get riled up over. A limp and some pain was no reason to quit their explorations. Stan didn’t know how to feel about Ford’s insistence on leaving so early, but he could only assume that Ford knew what he was talking about. Through a process of deliberate and repeated dismissal of the hospital staff, the men sped through their stay, essentially cheating through the system and practically sneaking out. It was largely Stan’s scheming.

Ford had no qualms with Stan’s method. It was what had to be done, and his brother’s deftness for trickery was, frankly, quite useful. Ford had been through worse, and he had no patience for the level of care others were attempting to impose on him. If he was going to be stuck in a hospital, it had better be for something more serious than a dislocated hip. And, while this injury wasn’t exactly nothing, he comfortably considered it inconsequential. He could walk without issue or aid, and his limp did not prevent him from running. He had been through worse. 

Stan watched him with a note of caution, even while helping sneak out. The warnings had clung to his mind more persistently than Ford’s. He was more inclined to believe the doctor that said Ford needed rest if he wanted his leg to heal. But if the choice was ultimately between trusting his brother and some crack doctor, he knew where he was placing his loyalties.

So, they ran off, leaving behind their fake identities and care providers. Ford’s limp barely slowed him down, and they could quite easily believe that everything was fine.

However, neither of them could deny that something was wrong when they finally boarded their ship. A year of boating had given them what they assumed to be permanent sea legs. The gentle rocking was comfortable for them. So, they are both startled when they step onto the deck of the Stan O War II after so many days away and Ford is thrown off balance by the pitches of the floor. He nearly falls over, only saved by his proximity to the ship’s edge, which he grabs. He stays there for a moment, clinging to the wood, surprised and uneasy. Stan stares at him, equally caught off guard. The rocking of the floor hadn’t disturbed him at all, so it couldn’t be a matter of lost adjustment. 

“You… You alright there, Sixer?” he asks with a concerned furrow in his brow.

After a brief hesitation, Ford nods and lifts himself back up, leaning on the ship’s edge. “Of course, Stanley, just caught off guard,” he says, his brow furrowed. A dull ache throbs in his hip as he adjusts to the motion, but that is not the source of his stumble. He had simply… lost his balance. 

“You sure? You look a bit spooked.” Stan isn’t sure what to make of this, but he knows that he doesn’t like it.

“I’m fine.” After a moment of mental preparation, Ford releases the edge of the boat. Encouraged by his regained ability to stand, he folds his arms and grins at his brother. “See?”

Stan is doubtful, but has no wish to argue with the positive development. “Okay, okay, if you say so. You’re the smart one, I guess.”

Ford rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, it has nothing to do with that and you know it.”

Stan flashes a grin in return and lightly elbows the other man in the chest. “I’ll be sure to bring that up next time you go flashing the PhD at me, Doctor,” he teases, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He darts off before Ford can reply, crossing the deck with long strides to take up his place at the wheel. “Well, what are we waiting for?!” he calls, “Let’s get this show on the road!”

“On the sea, Stanley, let’s get this show on the sea,” Ford corrects. He snickers at Stan’s groan and slips into the cabin to start plotting their course. 

 

 

Something was definitely wrong, something that was growing more and more impossible to ignore. Oh how they tried, waving away and quickly excusing every little incident that befell either of them. If they didn’t acknowledge them, then perhaps they would cease to exist. 

Stan’s periods of blankness are growing both longer and more frequent with each passing day. They have become a daily occurrence, occasionally even cropping up twice. They deeply unsettle Ford. He hates the glaze that comes over Stan’s eyes, seeming to sap the colour from the irises. He hates the blank expression, the way his jaw hangs open loosely. He hates the little idle motions his body performs without dictation. But there doesn’t seem to be anything they can do. What had once been moments of forgetfulness has evolved, mutated into something far more disruptive, and it is only getting worse with time.

If they didn’t acknowledge it, then maybe it would cease.

Meanwhile, something far more sudden seems to be happening to Ford himself. Every few days, he is smacked by an inexplicable dizzy spell, wherein the world spins and he struggles to stay upright. Combined with the dips of the boat as it rises and falls in the water, this vertigo often knocks him to the wood. His aching hip is getting no chance to heal with all of his stumbles, leaving him with a subtle but all too noticeable limp. It deeply unsettles Stan. But far be it from him to suggest Ford stay off his feet; they both know there’s no point in broaching that subject. After all, as Ford constantly likes to remind, he has had worse.

If they didn’t acknowledge it, then maybe it would cease.

It’s dusk. The sun descends slowly beneath the horizon, gradually turning the ocean into a vat of black ink as the light disappears. Ford is settled in the cabin, copying notes from some salt-stained scrap pages into a red, leather book. He prefers to record findings directly into the book, despite the messy and sometimes incoherent results; the efficiency is far preferable. However, ten minutes into their first day on the sea, he had been jotting down some notes about the weather when a sudden wave jerked the boat to the side, and the book flew from his hands. It missed going overboard by mere inches. After that incident, he had decided that carrying one of the new journals on deck was too risky. 

He checks the clock every few seconds. It’s Friday, the day that Dipper and Mabel phone after school. Time zone differences place this at inconsistent hours for the men based on their location, and this time it’s late in the evening. He has been looking forward to this call, as he and Stan both do every week; he needs the distraction from the unnerving reality of what has been happening.

When the radio finally chirps to life, Ford pounces on it eagerly. “Hello?” he greets, controlling his voice, lest he sound desperate.

“Hi Grunkle Ford!” come two voices in near perfect unison. A smile spreads across Ford’s face, and the constant worrying falls away.

“We figured out how to share the receiver, so we can both talk at once,” Dipper says happily, “Figured it’d be easier.”

“That’s very clever, Dipper,” Ford praises, “We would do the same, but someone has to man the boat.”

“Where are you headed now?” Mabel asks curiously.

“Well, we departed from Canada a few days ago, and we’re headed to Greenland,” says Ford, looking over the maps pinned to the cork board. “Haven’t run into anything on the water for a while now; we barely know what to do with ourselves.”

“So you haven’t seen anything at all?” Dipper says, sounding a tad disappointed. Hearing the tales of wild monsters was something he looked forward to, and Ford loved relaying them to someone who shared his enthusiasm for the creatures. 

“Well, we have, but it wasn’t at sea.”

“Something on land? Was it like something you found in Gravity Falls?” Mabel asks, getting excited. “More gnomes, a herd of centaurs? Pegasi?!”

“A werewolf,” Ford says, too impatient to build the suspense. Both kids gasp.

“Really?! A werewolf?!” Dipper cries, “Where?!”

The smile on Ford’s face grows larger. “It was a strange older man with a small livestock farm. He had an issue with some strange creature wiping out his sheep. As it turns out, the culprit was his own monster form,” he explains. 

“Oh my gosh, how did you deal with it?!” The amazement in Mabel’s voice is contagious.

“Well, we did have a little bit of trouble—” he starts, ready to brush it off as the non-issue it was in his mind, but Mabel was having none of that.

“Trouble? What trouble? You had trouble with it? Are either of you hurt? You’re not hurt, are you?” Her words spill through the receiver so fast that Ford struggles to answer any of her questions before the next had begun.

“Mabel, Mabel, relax, we’re fine,” he finally manages to get in. “We simply waited for the night to pass and informed the man of his situation.”

“So wait, you just… told this guy that he’s a werewolf?” Dipper questions incredulously.

Ford adjusts his glasses. “Why, yes, and he was shockingly receptive to the notion.”

“Grunkle Ford, are you sure you’re both okay?” Mabel asks again, clearly not eager to believe his denial. Ford marvels at her perceptiveness, or maybe just her innate understanding of her family.

“Of course I’m sure,” he replies, clicking his pen a few times. Dipper’s nervous habits were as contagious as his sister’s happiness.

“Is that the kids I'm hearing?” Stan asks, poking his head in the door.

Ford laughs a little as both children cheer at the sound of his voice. “So I take it you’d like to speak with Stanley, would you?” he asks.

“Yes, yes!” Mabel yells excitedly. Ford can easily imagine her throwing her arms into the air and flopping onto her back as she shouts. He shakes his head fondly.

“Alright, alright. Here he is.” 

Before he can pass off the phone, he hears, “We love you, Grunkle Ford!” He pauses in handing it over, then turns bright pink and shoves the receiver into Stan’s hand. Stan grins and nudges him slightly.

“They embarrassin’ you, Sixer?” he teases gently.

“Shut your mouth,” Ford says quickly before scurrying up onto the deck, his uneven steps clunking on the wood. Stan chuckles.

“You really got him good,” he tells the kids, “I’ve never seen him turn so red.”

“Awww, that’s so cute!” Mabel coos.

“I’ll make sure to tell him you think so,” Stan grins.

“Hey, Grunkle Stan?” Dipper asks, “Why didn’t you guys answer us last week?”

“Hey, yeah,” Mabel chimes in, the frown clearly audible in her voice, “We were pretty worried about it.”

“Ah, jeez, well… My brother told you about the werewolf, right?” he asks, rubbing the back of his head.

“Yeah, of course,” Dipper says, “He said that you were both okay.”

“Why, was he lying?” Mabel asks worriedly, “Something didn’t go wrong, did it?”

“Well… Let’s just say he got a little hurt. We were kinda away from the boat on the day you phoned.” 

“I-Is he alright?! How was he hurt?!” Mabel cries.

“He’s gonna be okay, right?!” Dipper adds, clearly just as worried.

“Yeah, yeah, he insists he’s totally okay. Barely slows him down at all. He just messed up his hip a little bit, but like I said, he’s still going strong,” Stan says quickly, hoping to comfort them and ease their worries. An image of Ford falling over suddenly flashes in his mind. He winces.

“Are you sure, Grunkle Stan?” Mabel asks.

Stan hesitates, then says as firmly as he possibly can, “Yeah, completely.”

He hates lying to them.

 

 

Ford can’t sleep. It’s almost four in the morning, and he’s as wide awake now as he was this time twelve hours ago. His hip is sore and his mind won’t shut up. 

He can’t sleep, and he knows that he’s not about to. 

It seemed like things were fine when he went to bed. He had been tired, and his eyes were heavy lidded. But he only managed an hour or two before he snapped awake. Now, he knows that he won’t be able to get back to it.

He sighs a little and stretches. The images that had roused him are burned into his brain, keeping him on edge and far from rest. 

He knew it was foolish to hope that he was freed from nightmares.

This is useless. Laying in bed like this, that is. There’s absolutely no way he’ll be able to sleep, not after that. So, cursing himself, he eases himself to his feet. A bolt of pain from his hip has him biting back a groan. Can’t wake Stan, that won’t help the situation. Carefully, quietly, he limps out of the room and into the main cabin. He sets a tea kettle on to boil and sinks into his desk chair, plucking a die from a can of writing utensils and juggling it between his fingers. 

He blinks, and visuals from the dream are etched into the back of his eye lids.

He shudders.

This dream had unnerved him deeply, as nightmares often do. However, he felt a certain… threatening tone to it. A deep, penetrating sort of unease, the kind that settles in the bones and steeps into the entire body. It’s the kind of fear that can only be conjured by a dream that threatens to become real.

It’s the kind of fear he hasn’t felt from a nightmare since his nightmares were hand crafted by Bill.

He hates himself for even thinking it, for allowing the possibility to exist in his mind. The only reason he could feel this way is because the dream was entirely within the realm of reasonable expectation. He has absolutely no reason to believe it was anything more than a nightmare brought on by his fears.

Right?

The kettle whistles. He quickly takes it off the heat, hoping the noise wouldn’t rouse his brother. He hears no activity from the sleeping quarters. An earl grey tea bag is dropped into a mug and the hot water poured over it.

It had been of Stan. The nightmare, it had been of Stan. Ford had walked out of the cabin to bring some coordinates to his brother and found him on the ground. He had rushed to his side, dropping the compass in his hand. Stan’s eyes were wide with confusion and fear. He didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know who Ford was.

Ford shudders again, shakily feeling the side of the mug. He lightly swishes the tea bag back and forth a few times, then takes a sip. The tea is still too hot; it burns his tongue and hurts to swallow. 

Stan’s odd periods of waking unconsciousness had become Ford’s greatest concern ever since they started interfering with his ability to function. They had completely driven the more insidious problem—the memory problem—from Ford’s mind. He hadn’t been keeping track of what Stan could and couldn’t remember; he had been too focused on the frequency of the trances. How had he forgotten about the disturbing possibility of a return to the fugue?

The dream had been all too real. Every little detail was in place, from the salty taste of the air to the dull ache in his hip to the sound his boots made against the wood. He could replay all of it in his mind, and he had been doing just that—over and over and over again. 

He tries sipping his tea again. Still too hot. He barely notices the sting this time.

What are they supposed to be doing today? They wouldn’t be arriving in Greenland for a little while yet; a glance at the marks on the maps tells him that they have another while of travel first. This area was usually a hotspot for creatures, but there had been nothing at all since the werewolf incident. It was almost as if the universe was holding its breath, keeping the dangers at bay until it would inevitably have to exhale once again.

Ford nurses the tea slowly. The heat is long gone by now. It isn’t as appetizing stone cold, but he hadn’t really taken notice. Time had slipped by without his awareness, and suddenly, Stan is getting out of bed and yawning his ridiculously loud yawn. 

He jumps when he enters the cabin and sees Ford there. 

“Sixer? The hell are you doing up?” he asks with a frown. “You look like you’ve been awake for hours.”

Ford doesn’t respond. The die had slipped from his hand a while ago, but he hadn’t noticed that either. He wonders when it happened as he scoops it back up. “I have, I suppose,” he says after leaving the bloated silence hanging heavily in the air for a few moments.

“Why weren’t you sleeping?” Stan puts a pot of coffee on. He notices the kettle and holds his hand near the side. No heat, none at all. He turns the burner back on.

“Couldn’t.” Ford isn’t looking at him, not yet. Not while the dream’s cruel imagery remains tattooed on his eyes. 

“Ah…”

Silence falls over them again. 

Ford eventually looks up, fixing his gaze on Stan’s face, studying it. Stan, feeling the burn of the examination, glances over, and their eyes meet. 

Ford drops the die again.

Stan takes a step back, a bit startled. A look of shock and horror had suddenly appeared on his brother’s face. He whips around, sure some sort of wretched monster had snuck on the ship behind him, but nothing is there. He looks back to Ford, who has risen to his feet.

“What? what is it?” Stan asks, taking another step back. He can’t remember the last time he had seen such intensity on his brother’s face, and it unnerves him.

Ford says nothing at first, just staring, almost as if he is waiting for something. Then, slowly, he sinks back down into his chair. “Nothing…” he mutters, “Just… just thought I saw something…”

Stan bites his lip. “You really need to sleep, Sixer… Seeing things is never a good sign.” He gets out a few items for their breakfast, even though he no longer feels all that hungry. 

“Yes. You’re right,” Ford says, his eyes falling onto the map and tracing their path. “Two more days, I think.”

“Great, we might just have enough food to last that long.” Stan pours himself a mug of coffee from what had brewed so far. “I put your water back on to boil. Figured you might want a bit more tea.”

“Thank you.” 

Stan waits a few moments longer in case Ford has any more to say. He is met with quiet. “I guess I’ll… Go look out for a bit?”

Ford nods a little, preoccupied by his thoughts. Stan sighs and steps out, taking a swig of his coffee and wishing he had thought to spike it with booze.

Ford doesn’t move for while. The cabin is quiet, the only noise coming from the occasional creak of wood as the boat shifts. He is alone with his thoughts.

“That was nothing,” he tells himself. “You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. You’re tired, you’re still on edge because of that dream. It was nothing. You imagined it. You imagined it because you’re tired and you’re on edge. It was nothing, Stanford. Nothing.”

The tea kettle whistles, making him jump. Slowly, he gets back up to his feet and fills his mug. 

It doesn’t matter because it was nothing. But for a fraction of a second, just a tiny sliver of time, too short to be anything but the figment of a sleep deprived and nervous imagination, he thought he saw a flash of yellow in his brother’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest instalment yet, friends! And full of goodness! I actually did finish it on Sunday, but it was really late, and I didn't want to wake my beta reader up for that, so it had to wait for today. Oh well, I hope it was worth it. As always, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you're strapped in for the ride. ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, this chapter has been a long time coming. It would've been up on time if I hadn't been stricken with wretched brain fog all week, and for that I apologize, but it worked out eventually! I'll get out of your way now, ha. Now, sit back and enjoy the show!

For five days in a row, Ford did not sleep. 

It was a disaster, a terrible idea. Perhaps he had been able to manage the exhaustion when he was younger, but it wore on him terribly in his older age. The bags under his eyes were horrendous: dark and huge, blatantly betraying what he was doing. So, of course, Stan took notice.

He chastised and castigated and insisted Ford sleep, but the man simply couldn’t. Not when the images that would flash before his eyes left him panting for air and shaking. Not when he could feel stares that did not exist fixed to his back. Not when he was certain that these flashes of yellow were becoming more frequent as time went by. 

Not when he was sinking so thoroughly into old habits.

Stan hated this. He wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but he was smart enough to figure that it had something to do with his trances. How could it not? They were freaky, and were only getting freakier. And, logically, if it was the trances causing this, then he was the one at fault. 

He hated it.

His efforts to repair the increasing amount of damage seemed to go nowhere. Ford was withdrawing again, slipping back into that protective shield of avoidance. He wasn’t sleeping, and he always seemed to have one hand hovering over his injured hip, ready to grab his gun. Stan fears that one day, he’ll whip it out by mistake, and someone will get hurt.

That’ll be Stan’s fault too, he supposes. 

For five days, Ford didn’t sleep. On the sixth, he fell asleep standing up, slumped against the wall of the cabin. Stan only noticed when Ford snapped back awake with a yelp. He had come running and found his brother panting, his gun actually drawn. He had a nightmare after a nap that couldn’t have been more than an hour at the absolute most. And Stan did not like the look in his eye.

He had seen the paranoia of the 80’s, right before everything was ruined. That’s what this looks like. 

It’s not supposed to be this way.

 

 

No matter how sunny it is outside, it will still be cold on deck. The ocean winds keep the temperature down, keep a sharp bite in the air. There’s a certain comfort to that: one can rely on the need to wear a jacket and expect to smell the brine in the air. It’s a constant; a constant that no disarray can interfere with. 

Stan has taken to spending a lot of time on deck. The callous, stubborn cold seems more likely to keep him aware than the muggier warmth of the cabin. Besides, that’s where Ford has been holing himself up, and the more distance kept between them right now, the better. 

Stan leans on the edge of the boat. He breathes in a long, slow lungful of air, letting his chest fully expand before releasing it again. The taste of salt is strong on his tongue, the smell in his sinuses. 

He’s waiting. 

A lapse had yet to happen today. One would come soon, he’s sure. There’s always one before noon. He wants to go back indoors and make lunch, but he can’t until it’s out of the way. Ford is in there somewhere, after all. He needs no reminder of what’s going on. 

So, he waits.

When the lapses started, he hadn’t noticed them happening. Over the last little while, however, that had stopped being the case. As the duration and frequency of the lapses increased, he had started to notice their occurrence, identify their patterns, and expect them. Did it help anything? No, not particularly. Knowing to expect them provides no insight on how to prevent them, and there isn’t much to be done about improving them. Additionally, Ford is still denying himself sleep, still acting tense and on edge whenever he was around Stan. At this point, Stan is certain that Ford is hallucinating from his exhaustion, which only worsens the paranoia and makes him more likely to not sleep. A disastrously vicious cycle. 

Stan sighs a little and rubs his eyes with his big hand, dislodging his glasses. This is not how it’s supposed to be. 

Suddenly, an obnoxious crashing sound occurs behind him, making him jump. It had come from the cabin. Stan swears to himself and gets to his feet, hurrying over. A glance through the window tells him that Ford is frantically rushing about, doing god knows what. Surely, from the strange urgency of his motions, it’s nothing good.

When Stan opens the cabin door, Ford jumps straight up in the air and whips out his gun. Stan quickly puts his hands up.

“Whoa there, Sixer, it’s just me!” he yelps quickly. Ford keeps the gun trained on him for a moment, studying him with darkly ringed eyes. Then, he lowers it.

“Sorry,” he mumbles before turning back to what he was doing. He doesn’t put the gun away.

“What’s going on in here?” Stan asks, trying not to betray uneasiness. It seems best to treat Ford delicately right now. Keeping calm around him feels like the safest option. 

“Working,” Ford replies abruptly. He’s shuffling through stacks of papers quickly, the sheets quivering with his hands. 

“What on?” Stan approaches carefully, trying to remain in Ford’s peripheral vision and make no sudden moves. It occurs to Stan that he’s treating his brother like a wild animal. He feels sick to his stomach at the thought.

Ford doesn’t answer at all, his attention caught by one of the papers. He mumbles it aloud as he reads, the sounds too soft, slurred, and rapid for Stan to pick out much. He tries to peer at the document and read over Ford’s shoulder. He can only catch sight of a doodle in the margin before Ford has defensively yanked the paper away. 

“Shouldn’t you be on lookout?” Ford asks tersely.

“Eh,” Stan shrugs, “We’re fine. Nothing in sight for miles.”

Ford purses his lips. The expression almost looks normal, but the deep, dark bags around his eyes shatter the illusion. Stan winces minutely. “Risky,” is all Ford says before he turns back to the page.

Stan hovers nearby, unsure of what to do. He doesn’t want to leave his brother in this state; it feels irresponsible. But realistically, what is there for him to do?

“I think I’ll work on lunch,” he says. Upon receiving no response, he sighs slowly and drifts over to the kitchen. 

He shoots glances over his shoulder every few minutes, keeping a nervous eye on Ford. The exhausted man seems even more on edge and jumpy than normal, almost as if he’s anticipating something. A lapse, probably. Stan had forgotten about that. It occurs to him that he should go back outside and give his brother space until the event comes and goes. 

Then again, he had already started to cook, so maybe there’s no point.

The room is mostly quiet, but between the clinking of metal utensils against a soup pot and the rapid mumblings, it’s far from silent. Tension seems to hang heavy in the air, even heavier than the brine of the outdoors. Stan’s jaw is clenched, his grip on his spoon tight. 

They are both waiting.

Suddenly, Ford stands. The motion is so sudden that it nearly knocks his chair over. Stan jumps.

“Something up, Sixer?” he asks, unable to mask his nervousness now. Ford glances at him, studying him again, before shaking his head.

“Just going out for some fresh air,” he says. Something about the tone of his voice sets Stan even more on edge. He isn’t sure what it is, but there is definitely something out of place.

“Lunch is almost ready,” Stan protests, looking down at the pot. “It just needs to heat for a few more minutes. Can it wait until after we’ve eaten?”

Ford shakes his head and steps out without further comment. 

Stan swears softly. He doesn’t want Ford out of sight, not when he’s acting so strangely. He cranks down the heat of the burner and drops the spoon on the counter, deciding to just abandon the food for now. Anticipation is thick in the air. Something is coming, he’s sure of it. And somehow, he knows for an absolute fact that Ford feels the same way.

A shiver runs down Stan’s spine as he hurries out onto deck. Where that certainty is coming from, he can’t say for sure, but he doesn’t think to question it. Ford is busying himself at the wheel, moving rapidly. 

“What’re you up to?” Stan calls, making sure the question will carry on the wind.

Ford doesn’t answer, too absorbed in whatever it is that he’s doing. Stan approaches cautiously, less out of fear of startling him than out of his own apprehension this time. He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but something feels so very wrong. It’s almost as if the sense is coming from somewhere else, painted over him in a thick layer of unease. 

He doesn’t know what to make of that.

Ford looks pale. He grips his pen very tightly and scribbles very fast with it, much faster than his usual note taking pace. Sweat beads on his skin, the little droplets rolling slowly down his face as he works. He knows something is coming; he can feel it somewhere deep in his twisting stomach. He has felt that way for about twenty minutes. Despite knowing it wouldn't help, he moved outdoors, hoping fruitlessly that the cool, salty ocean air might shock him back to his frayed senses. 

He needs to sleep, and he knows it. 

But he can't. 

He pauses in his scribbling. A thick, grey haze had drifted into his mind, holding him still and quiet. Stan watches confusedly. 

The world holds its breath. 

A low, long, unnerving moan escapes from Ford’s chest, and he is suddenly on the ground, stiff. Stan jumps. 

He watches in horror as the stiffness mutates into sharp, jerking motions, as if every muscle in his brother’s body was firing at once. He jumps back, his brain going blank with stunned horror. He can’t think, or move, or do anything at all—anything beyond listening and watching in a helpless stupor as his brother has a violent fit.

He is frozen for some time. He can’t tell how long. Surely not more than a few seconds, but hell if it didn't feel longer. Then, rather suddenly, he can think again. And all he can think about is helping his brother.

But he can’t.

Stan can’t move. He tries to reach out to Ford, to touch his stiff shoulder, to put something soft under his head, anything at all. But his body will not move. He is frozen in place. 

That is, until he moves. 

Or rather, his body moves. 

It is like watching a tv program, or some sort of cutscene where the controls have been wrenched away from him. He can see out his own eyes, watch the world in which he has suddenly become a passive observer. It is like his mind is in lockdown, completely severed from the rest of his body, but the power was left on. He is a wind up toy, or a puppet held by invisible strings. 

Stan isn’t sure what to do. He would fight it if he could, but there is no opponent in sight. Even if there was, there isn’t anything for him to fight with, not even his own bare fists. He tries to yell or scream, but no sound comes; his mouth doesn’t even move. 

A lapse. But a lapse far more nightmarish than any he has had before.

That’s what this must be. A nightmare. A sick, twisted nightmare where Ford is having a seizure and Stan can do nothing about it because his body is on autopilot. 

The body turns its back on Ford, which is probably the last thing Stan wants to do at this point. He needs to keep an eye on the situation, to know exactly what’s going on. How long has it been now? Thirty seconds? A minute? God forbid, some time longer? 

Its steps are uneven and send the body stumbling from side to side with the rocks of the boat. Stan tries to scream again, but still nothing happens. He can hear his own voice in his mind, but the roadblock keeps it there, and no sound escapes the theoretical to enter into reality. The body steps into the cabin and pauses, the head turning side to side to evaluate the situation. Stan keeps grappling for control desperately. Something has to give eventually. The lapses have never lasted for longer than a minute or two before. Surely it would be over soon, and he could sprint back to Ford, get him to land, get everything fixed. They could worry about whatever this was later. 

The body takes some more uneven, teetering steps, crossing the cabin. The boat pitches lightly, tossing Stan and his defiant vessel against the cabin wall. He feels the force of the impact, but still can’t seem to make his limbs obey. 

“Wake UP!” he screams at himself, tired of this nightmare, ready to jolt upright in bed, sweating and panting and shaken. But it keeps going.

The body inches along the wall, taking its sweet damn time, practically taunting Stan. The longer this takes, the longer Stan goes without knowing what’s going on with Ford. He tries to scream yet again, to no greater return. 

He feels sick.

The body reaches for the series of hooks along the wall. It bypasses the coats, the hats, the scarves, the harpoon, and the camera on its strap. 

Then, it draws the hand back and picks up the harpoon. 

A noiseless gasp echoes in Stan’s mind. His thoughts come in bursts of panic. “What’s it doing with THAT?! What is this nightmare, and why won’t I wake up?!”

The rapidfire, terrified, silent babbling comes to a screeching halt as the body opens its mouth and finally, finally makes a sound: a garbled, unearthly, unnatural laugh. A laugh he has heard echoing in his nightmares since they began, since he had first heard it a year ago.

The unmistakable laugh of Bill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, did you think Bill was listed in the main characters for no reason? Eheheh. I hope you enjoyed (or suffered, whichever). As always, thank you for reading, and I do sincerely hope that I have continued to meet your expectations, whatever those may be. I appreciate these lavishly kind comments so much, everyone. <3


	9. Chapter 9

It was a feeling unlike any other he had experienced before. A powerful, agonizing, startling wrench, as if a crowbar had been wedged between his mind and the inside of his skull then used to crudely pry the two apart. He has a body again, it would seem; arms, legs, a heart beating far too rapidly, but the form is translucent. An illusion, perhaps, or some other semi-real ghost stuck within its own brain. Dislodged, shaken, and steeped in frigid fear, he takes advantage of his newfound apparitional form to finally punch something. Stan recognizes this place: a messy, disorganized collection of rooms and artefacts. His mindscape. 

His fist collides with the first thing he can spot: a tall, thick, pole, buried in an isolated pile of sand, the top broken off into shattered, splintering wood. He yelps in pain, then shakes out his slightly bloodied hand and shouts, “CIPHER!”

There goes that damn laugh again, appearing in the air behind him. He jumps away and whips around in time to watch the luminescent triangle rise out of the ground.

“Well, if it isn’t Stan Pines!” he cries, delight in his slightly distorted voice, “How nice of you to show your face!”

“What the hell is this?!” Stan shouts back. His hands are balled so tightly into fists that his knuckles are white, and they tremble slightly in his fighting stance. Whether that is from anger or fear, he couldn’t say.

“I know you didn’t think THAT was all it would take to keep ME away!” The demon laughs again, revelling in his sarcastic taunts.

“YOU’RE DEAD! WE DESTROYED YOU!”

“I am an omniscient and transcendent being with powers beyond your comprehension! You can’t PUNCH me out of existence!” Bill’s eye narrows in a grin that needs no mouth to be clear. “Sure, that damn gun did some damage, but that was nothing PERMANENT!”

Stan growls furiously, struggling to come up with words. He can’t say if that is anger or fear either. “You shattered into a million pieces! You were burned down! You’re DEAD!” Stan repeats. He’s reasoning with himself more than Bill, who will obviously not be killed by an explanation of why he should be dead.

“You know, Stanley, I know you’re not smart, but I hadn’t pinned you as THIS slow!” Bill floats over to him and plucks the man’s ear. Then, he effortlessly avoids Stan’s attempt at swatting him away. “When you shatter a glass, do the shards just VANISH FROM EXISTENCE?”

“They don’t come back together and become a damn glass again!”

“Well, believe it or not, I’m not ACTUALLY a glass!” 

Stan growls again. As long as Bill is here, swaggering around inside the mindscape, he shouldn’t be able to do anything with Stan’s body, or, more importantly, that harpoon. He would have to keep the demon talking until he could figure out a way to regain control.

“Where’ve you been then?!” Stan shouts.

“Aw, I knew you missed me!” Bill taunts delightedly. He snaps his tiny, black fingers, and suddenly, they’re in a different part of Stan’s mind: one in just as big of a disarray, but without the claustrophobic feel of the hallway. It’s a plain, a plain filled with short stalks of wheat. A swing set is nearby. The chain of the right seat had snapped, but had been hastily reattached with rope. The new support is uneven, rickety, and unsure, but repaired nonetheless. “Let’s stick to this glass metaphor, since it’s something you actually COMPREHEND.”

Stan’s eyes are drawn to the swing set, absorbing the sight of the rope. Then, they flick back to Bill. “Alright, fine, just answer the damn question!”

“Shards don’t just STAY IN ONE SPOT when you drop a glass, do they? They scatter all over the damn place! They hide in corners and under furniture and in plain sight!” Bill laughs uproariously once more. “I’ve been gathering them all together for months now, you know. And learning to drive this thing! Takes some PRACTICE to hijack a mind when you’re stuck inside it!”

Realization hits Stan hard enough to make the ground of the mindscape tremble. He stumbles from the quaking beneath his feet, then screams, “All those times I zoned out… those were YOU?!”

Bill snaps his fingers again, teleporting them to yet another section of the mindscape. Here, the doors are padlocked shut, the words on the signs burned off. In fact, the entire area seems to bear signs of fire; scorch marks cover the floors and walls, soot gathers in the corners, the faint scent of char hovers heavily in the air. Stan grimaces. 

“You’re finally putting the pieces together, aren’t you?!” Bill goads, knocking on one of the locked doors. “About time! You haven’t touched this place! It’s like you don’t even want all your memories back!”

“I don’t care about that right now!” Stan runs towards the door, taking another wild swing at Bill. His fist goes right through the yellow body, and he falls against the burned wood. He coughs on the resulting cloud of dust and soot. Bill laughs. 

“You’re so quick to throw punches! Nothing at all like good ole Sixer, he was classy about it. He kept his mindscape a lot tidier, too.”

“Don’t talk about him!”

“Oh come ON, Stan!” Bill croons, floating in a circle about Stan’s head to watch him spin. “I lived in that brain for a year, you know. Know it like the back of my hand!”

Stan scoffs. “Tell that to yourself when you fell for our trick, you three sided mother f—” 

“Stanley, Stanley! Language!” Bill tuts. “And as for your TRICK…” The demon pauses for a moment, then suddenly doubles in size, turning himself red. The pitch of his voice drops drastically as he growls, “I’m here to make you PAY!” 

With a flick of Bill’s arm, a wavering window appears in the air, showing the view out Stan’s eyes. The harpoon is gripped tightly in his big hands. He’s out on deck, facing towards the part of the boat where Ford lays on the ground. The breath is sucked from Stan’s apparitional chest as if he had been punched. 

“No, no! Don’t you dare!” Stan cries, launching himself at the demon. Bill, focused as he was on making the body walk, is caught unaware, yelping. Stan is surprised as well, having expected to just phase through the triangle. But, never one to waste an opportunity, he yells a battle cry and starts pummelling Bill over and over. Bill yells again, swatting at the man.

“W-What are you d-doing?! Get o-off!” Bill screeches, flinging Stan off furiously. Stan grunts as he hits the scorched ground, coughing from the impact. Then, he scrabbles to his feet, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. A glance out the viewport tells Stan that his body is now facedown on the wood. 

“Listen here, you yellow bastard,” Stan hisses, rolling up his sleeves. “You are gonna give me my body back, and then you are gonna get the fuck out of my head.”

Bill’s eye narrows as he rises back into the air. “Oh yeah?” he asks, his voice going softer than Stan had ever heard before. A chill runs down his incorporeal spine. 

“Yeah!” he says quickly, hoping to mask his obvious fear. His eyes dart to the window. The dark grain of the wood is still all he can see.

Bill chuckles. The sound grows louder, mutating into a hysterical cackle that has Stan shivering again. The triangle lowers himself towards the blackened ground. “Fine then, have it back.” His voice is still unusually soft. His form flickers, and he gradually sinks back out of sight. 

 

Stan’s head spins, and the haze in his mind passes. He is face down on the floor, his nose pressed to the boards. The smell of salt water is so pungent that it makes him cough, hard. He carefully sits up, the dizziness almost sending him back down. He groans softly.

What had happened? 

His knuckles ache, but when he looks down at them, no injuries are present. A dribble of liquid hits his eye, and he jumps. He wipes at it, and his hand comes away bloody. 

Then, he notices the harpoon laying a few feet away from him. 

The point is red. Stan’s head begins to sting right over his brow. He must have cut himself on it when he fell. His heart sinks and his stomach lurches.

He had hoped that it had been a dream.

Slowly, carefully, he pulls himself to his feet. His knees quiver, threatening to buckle beneath him. After a moment, the feeling has passed enough for him to walk safely. 

His heart sinks lower as he looks down the boat.

Ford is still sprawled at the helm. 

In a motion so fast that Stan can barely even consider it a conscious decision, he stoops down, grabs the harpoon, and chucks it overboard. It slowly sinks into the depths of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna have this up yesterday so i could make a sassy April Fools misleader at the beginning but eh, oh well. The good times continue right here, ahah! Thank you very much for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

Blood keeps dribbling into his eye. It’s distracting as all hell to have to swat it away over and over, but he doesn’t have time to do anything about it right now. Not while he’s rushing about the ship, grabbing up every weapon he can get his hands on, chucking them all overboard. It’s a moronic plan, leaving the entire ship defenceless. But if Bill is in his mind, then he won’t take any risks. There can be nothing for Bill to use. 

As the last gun splashes into the water, Stan turns on his heel and sprints back to his brother. Ford is still sprawled on his back, his limbs askew and his lip hanging open. Blood dribbles from the side of his mouth. Stan grimaces and wipes it off, trying to identify a source. A low chuckle resonates from somewhere deep in his brain, and he shudders. He shakes his head hard as if trying to physically dislodge the sound, then hops to his feet. He’s wasting time. He has to get this boat to shore.

He rips off his life preserver and slips it under Ford’s head to act as a makeshift pillow, then drapes his coat over the still body. A bitter ocean wind immediately sinks its teeth into Stan’s skin, but he ignores the cold and abruptly turns the boat around. Getting to land, that’s what matters most right now. He needs to get Ford looked after. 

More blood drips into his eye. A frustrated growl escapes his chest and he rubs it on his shirt sleeve. Now that the thick coat is no longer the thing absorbing the blood, he can feel just how much of it there actually is. The chuckle resonates once more, and Stan grips the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white. 

Suddenly, a glorious thought bursts into his mind. The radio! He can try to get ahold of a hospital so they’ll be ready! 

He looks down at his brother. Blood is still gently trickling from his mouth. Stan is afraid to find out why. He tears his gaze away and rushes to the transceiver. 

He can barely remember what he’s supposed to do in this situation, but eventually, he locates the coast guard’s distress channel and—in an absolute panic—spits out the information. He and his brother are on a small vessel some number of miles, kilometres, sorry, off the coast of Canada. They were headed to Greenland, but then his brother had collapsed suddenly and had some sort of fit. He is bringing the boat in to land as fast as he possibly can manage, and he wants to be sure that they can get to the hospital as soon as they arrive. 

He looks back at his brother. The panicked buzzing in his skull keeps him from hearing the laugh, but he knows it’s there.

 

 

When Ford opens his eyes, he is practically blinded by offensively white lights. He blinks rapidly, trying to chase away the resulting tears. His head is full of cotton, and a dull, deep throb pulses behind his eyes. He tries to set aside the ache and feel out his other senses. He’s a little cold, but not much. A vaguely itchy fabric lays against his skin. It feels flimsy. Definitely not one of his familiar sweaters. Who had changed his clothes?

Ah, finally, his eyes have adjusted to the oppressive brightness. His vision still seems slightly hazy, the sort of bleariness one feels when they first wake up after a deep sleep. He supposes that must be what happened: he fell asleep. Being awake for as long as he had is a lot more difficult now than it used to be. College was long ago. 

He looks around slowly. Moving his head worsens the ache. His ears ring. The sound makes him cringe. It takes a moment for the rush of pain and noise to pass—or rather, fade to a point that he can ignore them—and he can finally examine his surroundings. 

A plain, white room. A wall of monitors and tubes and buttons. A nightstand with a single, mopey flower in a tiny pot. A hospital room.

Ford shuts his eyes again and groans softly. 

His sound of discomfort is followed by another, from someone else, which startles him a little. The surprise passes quickly though, ushered out by fondness. Stan is right by his side, asleep, his head and shoulders rested on the bed, his hand idly holding Ford’s. Ford smiles slightly. 

Stan stirs, then yawns and rubs his eyes. A bandage is secured across his forehead, and a big one at that. A pang of concern hits Ford hard, and he is about to voice it when Stan gasps.

“Sixer, you’re up!” he cheers, enveloping his twin in a hug. Ford jumps, sending another blast of pain through his skull. But, he returns the hug anyway. Stan squeezes him carefully. “Damn it, I was worried…” he mutters.

Ford gently rubs his back. “What for…?” he asks softly. His voice is a bit raspy, and he wonders how long he had been asleep for. “How did I get a concussion…?”

Stan pulls back, confusion written on his face. “How did you know about that?”

Ford rolls his eyes. “I have a headache, I’m sensitive to light, there’s a ringing in my ears, and I don’t remember what happened… What else would it be…?”

He expects Stan to smile a little and commend his intelligence. It is what would normally happen when Ford pieces together limited clues to reach a conclusion Stan didn’t expect him to. But instead, Stan’s expression remains somber, and he even breaks eye contact. Ford frowns.

“Well… Uh… You are right, of course… But that’s not all…” Stan mutters. 

Ford tries to think back to the event, but his memory is hazy. He remembers kneeling on the deck, scribbling frantic notes on a sheet of paper crinkled by water. What might have arisen from that scenario that led to a head injury is beyond him. “What do you mean, Stanley…?”

Stan hesitates, creating a thick silence between them. He searches for the right words, a task that would’ve been difficult enough even without Ford’s scrutinizing gaze fixed on him. How can he possibly put this?

“Stanley…?” Ford prompts, panic beginning to build in his chest. Why is Stan so unwilling to share?

“You know how you said that… that Bill… uh… zapped you with electricity…?” Stan says slowly, drawing it out. Anything is better than that silence. Ford nods, waiting. “Well, uh… I guess it… fucked up your system a little…”

Normally, the pieces would begin to click together, but Ford’s mind is still foggy and he cannot puzzle through what is being offered. That he had a concussion was obvious, but this puzzle refuses to come together for him. “That was a while ago…” he says, “The wounds are all healed…” 

“Yeah, well, I guess it didn’t just cause burns, Poindexter…” Stan takes a deep breath. “You had a seizure, alright? You got the concussion from whacking your head against the deck when you were… flailing around.” He had bitten his cheek, too. Stan doesn’t bother to mention that. He probably had noticed that already.

Ford is silent. Of all the things Stan could’ve said, that was not something he had considered. No words are exchanged for what feels like an eternity.

“You… You okay, Sixer…?” Stan asks after an agonizingly long time. “I know it’s a bit… a bit rough to hear…” He laughs weakly. “I didn’t even believe the guy who told me that’s what happened… But apparently it’s just… something that comes from being jolted, I guess.” 

Ford still says nothing as his muddled brain tries to absorb this news. Eventually, he says in a very small voice, “That was so long ago…” He swallows. “Why now…?”

Stan shrugs a little. “The doc said it was probably because you went without sleeping for so long…” Ford groans softly. “So… So from now on, you’ve gotta sleep… We’ll get you pills for it if we have to…”

A chill runs down Ford’s spine. Sleeping is the last thing he wants to do. The nightmares are still burned into his mind’s eye, threatening to replay with every blink. Perhaps the right sort of sedative could chase away dreams, but… something tells him these are a variety more sinister. 

That can’t be, he scolds himself vigorously. Bill is gone. Bill is dead. There is no need to harbour this paranoia. It is ridiculous, it is foolish, and, apparently, it is going to have serious consequences. 

He sighs shakily.

“What happened to your head?” Ford asks, eager to get his thoughts off of this subject. Stan’s face is blank for a moment. Then, he laughs briefly. 

“Oh, that? It’s just a cut. I forgot all about it,” he says, waving it off. 

“A bandage of that size indicates more than ‘just a cut’, Stanley,” Ford scolds.

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing! Only took a few stitches.”

Ford shoots him a scathing look. “Stitches?! That’s not just a cut!”

“Oh, can it, Sixer,” Stan laughs again, taking hold of his hand like he had before. 

Ford smiles a little bit, but something nags at his mind. Something about this doesn’t make sense; a piece is still missing. He watches Stan closely, trying to place what it is. Stan’s laughter fades, and he squirms minutely under the scrutinizing gaze.

“What’re you looking at, Poindexter?” he asks, the discomfort plain in his voice.

“How’d you get that wound, Stanley?” That’s what’s missing, he thinks. Stan had avoided that question.

“Look, it’s not important, okay? What matters is you getting better.” The laugh sounds in Stan’s head again, making him tense. Ford notices.

“What are you hiding?” he asks, the softness vanishing from his tone. Stan grips his hand a bit tighter. The sudden coldness in his brother’s voice hits like a punch to the gut. 

“I-I’m not hiding anything, Sixer, c’mon,” he says, the words sounding almost like pleads. They had worked so hard to grow close again, and now, he can feel Ford withdrawing. 

“I’m not an idiot,” Ford says slowly, his eyes narrowed. “I know there’s something you’re keeping from me.”

That damn laugh sounds in Stan’s mind again, and he squeezes Ford’s hand tightly, trying to keep him from pulling away any further. “Ford, please, you’ve gotta trust me on this!” 

The room quiets again. Stan holds his breath. He can hear his own heart beating.

Ford relaxes his tensed muscles and squeezes Stan’s hand back. Stan is so flooded with relief that he feels he might be sick. He grips that hand in both of his own, his eyes flicking to his brother’s, ready to thank him excitedly. He stops upon seeing the wariness on Ford’s face. 

“What, you thought ole Sixer would let up that easily?” a voice inside Stan’s skull taunts. Stan grits his teeth. “He’s not THAT stupid, you know.”

Stan scoots his chair a little bit closer to the bed and holds his brother’s hand a little tighter. It’s not too late, he tells himself, he can still fix this. 

Ford sighs a little bit and again returns the squeeze. He’s being ridiculous, he knows it. Bill is dead, after all, there’s nothing to be afraid of. And yet, he can’t dispel it; there is clearly something amiss. Stan is obviously hiding something.

Maybe there’s a good reason for that.

Ford isn’t naive enough to believe it, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a quick one, nothing too big or heavy. Don't worry, there are big things coming. As always, thank you so much for reading, and an even bigger thank you to everyone who has been leaving their comments. I'm baffled and thrilled by the positive response! My tumblr is embulalia as well if you wanna yell at me about this story on a different site.   
> Edit from the future: AUTHOR IS NO LONGER A WEENIE AND WILL RESPOND TO YOUR COMMENTS WITH GREAT ENTHUSIASM. IM SO SORRY IF YOUVE COMMENTED BEFORE AND I DIDNT RESPOND. I DEFINITELY WILL NOW. I LOVE ALL OF YOU FOR SAYING SUCH NICE THINGS ABOUT MY WORK


	11. Chapter 11

Three weeks now. This is by far the longest gap between calls that has ever occurred. In fact, there being any gap at all is pretty unusual; the number of them can be counted on one hand (one five fingered hand, that is). There was the time that the Friday call was missed by two days because an encounter with a kraken had busted the antennae on top of the boat, and that’s how long it took for Stan and Ford to figure out how to hammer it back into a functional position. Then, there was the time that a storm had water logged the transceiver, and they had to buy a new one to replace it. That delay was about four days. The occasion that had Ford injuring his hip kept the call delayed by a little more than a week. Up until now, that had been the longest delay. But three whole weeks… 

Dipper marks the twenty second day late on his calendar in disbelief. What could be causing this? He and Mabel had been constantly trying to get ahold of them, every day after school, but the channel they always use has yielded nothing but static. They even tried testing out some other stations to see if this was just some mistake. Still nothing. 

Dipper tears his eyes off the calendar and looks over at the radio sitting on his desk. He and Mabel had scrabbled together their birthday money to buy it; the transceiver is tragically old, but it still chugs on reliably. Mabel fondly compares it to Stan’s ancient jalopy, but Dipper is always quick to add that it is considerably more functional. He approaches it slowly.

Is he really going to bother trying again? 

Seems that way. He pulls out his desk chair and plops into it, picking up a pen. It’s immediately between his teeth, subject to nervous gnawing as slightly trembling fingers flip a few switches and twiddle some dials. The sound of static fuzz fills the air. It squeaks now and then as he adjusts the stations, and, after about a minute of fiddling, some voices appear in the air. Dipper’s practiced ear can quickly identify them as not one of his grunkles, so he moves on. The process repeats. 

More static. More voices. More rising and then plummeting hopes. He tunes out everything else; it’s just him and the unyielding static, the unfamiliar chatter, the disappointment, the static again— 

“Hey, Dip Dop!”

Dipper yelps and jumps directly out of his chair, the motion so sudden that it almost knocks the thing over. The chewed pen clacks onto the desk from between his lips. 

“M-Mabel! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Dipper wheezes, fighting down what he suspects to be an encroaching anxiety attack. 

Mabel drops her bag on the ground and approaches her brother, gently touching his arm. “Dipper, I’m so sorry, I thought you heard me come in. Are you okay?”

Dipper counts his breaths, slowly calming himself down. The littlest of smiles tugs at his lips. A small victory. “Yeah, yeah…” He turns at her and shoots her an annoyed look. “Quit calling me ‘Dip Dop’.” 

Mabel beams, the sense of victory not lost on her. She decides to spare him for now, although she is already planning the congratulatory card that will be tucked into his chemistry textbook this evening. “Aw, why not?! It’s cute!”

“That’s why!” Dipper huffs and picks his pen back up, his thumb fluttering against the button and filling the room with a repetitive clicking noise. 

His sister laughs. With a deft hand, she swipes his hat, ruffles his hair, and drops the hat back in place. Dipper groans, plopping back into his desk chair. The motion seems to startle the radio, and it unleashes a sharp shriek of static that makes both kids jump. Dipper’s hand flies to the dials, urgently working to rectify the problem.

Mabel leans on the desk once the sound is tolerable again. “Trying again?” she asks, her tone softer and more serious now. Dipper nods and sighs. “Still nothing?” He nods again. 

“I don’t understand it…” Dipper mumbles, sticking the pen back into his mouth to put both hands on the dials. “They’ve never taken this long before…”

Mabel’s eyes flick to the pen. He has chewed holes into countless ink cartridges over the years. The mess is always spectacular. “Yeah, I know… But there must be a reason.”

Dipper finally tears his eyes off the radio, looking up at her. “I know, that’s what I’m worried about. What if something went wrong? What if one of them is hurt again, but even worse? What if the ship SANK?” 

Mabel shudders, then bounces back immediately to offer comfort. “I’m sure the boat didn’t sink, Dipper. They’re good sailors, you know!”

“Oh yeah?! What about that time Grunkle Stan told us about, when Grunkle Ford almost ran the boat right into a giant, horrifying sea monster?!”

“He was probably exaggerating!” Dipper gives her a look. She laughs a little, awkwardly rubbing her arm. She admits, “Well, I guess it… does sound like something he’d do…”

“Yeah, exactly.” Dipper turns back to the radio, adjusting the knobs with a greater fervour. Mabel watches quietly, biting her lip. 

A year changes a lot, but it had barely touched the younger set of Pines twins. School isn’t quite the hellish warzone Wendy had promised, and the classes have yet to make them struggle too badly. Dipper’s intellect and rabid curiosity (as well as some prompting from a certain great uncle) have inspired him to take a large load of science electives, while Mabel is delightedly immersing herself in art. They have friends, they enjoy their classes, and all seems well. Most importantly, they are together. Happy.

That is, until night falls.

Their parents had questioned why the twins wished to share a room again when they had been so eager to split up before. “We got used to it over the summer,” they explained quickly, unable to say that they need to be close to each other when nightmares strike, that they need to be able to crawl into each others’ beds, that they need an instant reminder that the world is not still ending and that Bill’s giant eye isn’t flashing quickly above their heads, ready to sentence one of them to death. That summer had probably forever changed them, for better and worse. 

The radio used to be a comfort. Being able to talk to their grunkles was an instant source of happiness, and there were always exciting stories to hear. But now, as it offers nothing but unfamiliar voices and fuzz, it seems more like a taunt.

Mabel gently reaches out and shuts it off.

“Hey!” Dipper protests, reaching to switch it back on. Mabel grasps his hand.

“This isn’t helping, Dipper. It’s just getting you more upset.” He squeezes her hand a little, biting down hard on the pen. “I’m sure everything’s fine. They probably just broke the antennae again. They’re always doing stuff like that!” Mabel laughs. Then, she comedically deepens her voice and throws on a ridiculously over the top grumpy face in an imitation of Stan. “Sixer, check out that giant fanged pelican! What, you want me to sail closer to it so we can get pictures super close up? Okay! CLANG!” She shouts the last word and smacks her hands together loudly, then laughs again. Dipper can’t help but grin along with her.

“Okay, okay, I guess you’re right,” he concedes, drawing his hands back from the radio. Mabel crosses the room and flops dramatically onto her bright pink bed, sighing loudly like a deflating balloon.

“I’m so glad it’s finally spring break,” she says dreamily, stretching. Dipper spins the desk chair around so he can face her.

“How long do we have off?” he asks, looking over to his calendar. 

“Two whole weeks! It’s great!” She kicks her shoes up into the air, snickering when they thump loudly against the wall. 

Dipper takes the pen out of his mouth and approaches said calendar, jotting a note on the last day of that two weeks. “That’s a pretty long time, don’t you think?” he comments.

“Aw, don’t tell me you want to go back earlier, Dipper,” Mabel teases.

“Well, I don’t know, we’re covering interesting stuff!” he huffs defensively. “Maybe I like school!”

“Hey, I like it too, but you know what I like even more?!”

“Sprinkles?”

“Yeah, but I was gonna say going on a little trip!” She flashes a wide grin at her brother, who shoots her a confused look in return.

“What trip? We’re not going on vacation this year.”

Mabel giggles. “How do you know?”

Dipper frowns and crosses his arms. “Because Mom and Dad would’ve told me?”

“Not if I asked them to make it a SURPRISE!” Mabel shouts, hopping to her feet and bouncing on her mattress.

An idea forms in Dipper’s mind, and his eyes widen. “Mabel, are you serious? This isn’t a joke, is it?”

“No way!” Mabel jumps down, the whole room rocking with the impact. She grabs an envelope out of the front pocket of her rainbow bag and thrusts it at Dipper. Tucked inside are two bus tickets. He rips them out and stares at them in shock.

“Surprise!”

Dipper laughs. “Mabel, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

She throws an arm over his shoulders and gives him a squeeze. Then, with a grand, sweeping gesture of her arm, she announces delightedly, “Pack your bags, Dip Dop! The Pines are going back to Gravity Falls!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, another chapter already?! I must be spoiling you guys. My spring break is ending though so it'll be back to weekly after this, I'm sorry to say. Hope you enjoyed this lil change of pace, everyone, and thank you dearly for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

Afternoon in the woods is always a sight to behold. The sinking sun lights the leaves like a spotlight, turning the firs into giant bottle brushes and the oaks into brilliant feather dusters. Long shadows are painted over the orange and green ground: giant arrows pointing towards the approaching night. In a small forest clearing, connected to the rest of the world by a meagre excuse for a paved road, the drastic spring sunlight streams through the small, triangular windows of a small, triangular shack. The giant, red letters stationed across the slanted roof have been repaired countless times, but the S from SHACK has stubbornly refused to stay in place. Management decided a while ago that leaving it upside down and dangling adds character.

The management in question is humming cheerily to himself as he idly dusts off a slightly misshapen statue. Soos and Melody both have been tidying up around the place, readying it for coming guests. They did cleans like this fairly rarely; as it turns out, the customers tend to find exhibits that look old and dusty more intriguing. However, Soos wants the repurposed home looking as nice as possible for these particular visitors.

Melody is washing the windows, keeping one eye on the clock. The bus is due to arrive in about a half hour, and there’s still no sign of Wendy. “Soos?” she asks.

The portly, suited man chirps in return, “Sup?”

“You did tell Wendy to be here by 5, right?” 

“Yup! Sure did.” He takes a step back from the statue, squinting his eyes. Then, he nods to it and gives it a thumbs up. “Lookin good, Mr Pines,” he tells it. The statue grimaces back in return.

Melody frowns slightly. “I would’ve thought she’d be here by now… Wasn’t she excited to see Dipper and Mabel again?”

Soos looks over at her and smiles. “Well, I didn’t tell her that part.”

Melody raises a brow. “What? Why didn’t you?”

“Mabel said she wanted it to be a surprise!”

Melody giggles. “Oh, right, sure,” she says fondly, “That sounds like her alright.”

“I said I want her to come fix the S,” Soos explains, taking a moment to snicker at his own prank. “She’s gonna be real surprised.”

“Yeah, but it’s Wendy. What if she ends up getting here late because she doesn’t want to do that?” Melody points out. Soos taps his chin. That possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

“Oh, it’ll be fine, dude, I’m sure of it,” he waves it off after only a moment’s doubt. 

Melody chuckles and turns back to the window. “If you think so, Soos.”

“You bet I do!” he declares, folding his arms over his chest. “She’ll come in the door in a shroud of heavenly light.”

Melody pauses her cleaning to shoot a perplexed look over her shoulder. Soos could say some pretty strange things sometimes.

The front door of the shack opens with the chiming of a bell. Wendy stands in the doorway, the setting sun falling right at her back and lighting her up just as Soos had predicted. Melody’s perplexed look shifts from Soos to Wendy and then back to Soos.

“Hey dude,” Soos says pleasantly.

“You seriously want me to fix the sign again?” Wendy asks with a groan, cutting directly to the chase. “I thought we said we were just leaving it like that.”

“We are,” Soos replies. Wendy frowns. 

“What? But you said…” 

“Surprise!”

Wendy squints. Whether her expression is more confusion or annoyance is difficult to say. She raises one hand slightly, awaiting an explanation.

Melody rolls her eyes and hops down from her step stool. “There’s a bus coming at 5:15, Wendy,” she explains, patting the other girl’s shoulder. “Dipper and Mabel are visiting.”

Wendy’s face splits into a wide grin. “Really?! Alright!” she whoops, slapping a high five with the slightly misshapen statue glowering at them all. Then, she pauses. “Wait a minute, why are they coming now?” she asks, folding her arms over her chest. “Stan and Ford aren’t back yet.”

“They said they wanted to come visit the rest of us,” Soos says, dusting off the statue yet again. “They’re all our buds!”

“Well, yeah, but I just thought they’d wait until those guys got here, that’s all,” Wendy muses uncertainly. 

Melody gently touches Wendy’s arm. “It’s nothing to be worried about, Wendy! They’re off school and wanted to come see everyone is all.”

Wendy smiles a little. “Yeah, yeah, I guess you’re right…” She clears her throat and straightens up a bit more, trying to compensate for any lost bravado. “Well, what are we waiting for? We have to get down to that bus stop!”

“Yeah!” Soos exclaims excitedly, plopping his feather duster on the counter, “Let’s go meet the little dudes!”

“Shot gun!” Wendy yells, bolting out the door. 

“Hey, no fair!” 

Melody rolls her eyes and hooks the car keys around her finger. Sounds like she’ll be the one driving again.

 

 

The bus stop is little more than a patch of road where the trees are a bit further back for a little ways. The sign is faded and well vandalized, the bench is so meagre it’s barely worth noticing, and there’s no sidewalk to speak of. Wendy leans on the bent pole, Soos bounces up and down lightly in place, and Melody has her arm hooked through his, her shoulder bobbing along with him. They watch the road, waiting for the flash of headlights to cut through the approaching dusk. 

“When did you say it’d get here?” Wendy asks, feigning disinterest.

“5:15,” Melody says, checking the time on her phone. “A couple more minutes, assuming it’ll be on time.”

“Wow, who knew buses could be so slow?” Soos says, squinting and holding his hand over his eyes as he peers down into the trees. 

“It’s not exactly an area with a lot of freeway,” Melody points out.

Wendy stretches. “One time, my school bus skipped off the road and into the woods on the way to school.”

Soos gasps. “Dude, what happened?”

Wendy shrugs with a grin, picking at her nails casually. “We got stuck out there for a couple hours and missed half the day before we could get it fixed,” she recounts in a droll tone. “Pretty sure I saw a bear in the woods too. It was pretty cool.”

Soos stares at her with a dropped jaw. Melody snickers. 

The sound of tires on rough pavement grabs the attention of all three of them. Wendy hops up straight and hurries to where the other two wait, leaning over as far as safely possible as the bus pulls up. They hold their breath as it slows to a shuddering stop, settles on its tires, and wheezes a few huffs of exhaust. The door slides open, and out bound two kids and a pig.

“Dipper, Mabel!” Wendy cheers, hurrying straight up to them for hugs. Soos pulls away from Melody to join them. 

“Hi Wendy! Wow, you look different!” Mabel gasps, “Your hair is shorter!”

Wendy waves it off nonchalantly, as usual. “Oh, that? Did it months ago.”

Dipper gawks at her, his cheeks flushed. She looks even better than he remembered. Mabel glances at him and snickers.

“Hey little dudes, don’t forget about ole Soos,” warbles the other voice, snatching them both from Wendy and lifting them off the ground in a tight squeeze. They both cough but return the hug—albeit with much less physical force. 

“Th-That suit looks so good on you!” Mabel wheezes.

“Aw, really? Thanks, Mabel!”

Melody lightly taps Soos’s arm. “I think you’re smothering them, dude. Might want to set them down.”

“Oh, sorry!” 

Once their feet are back on the ground, the twins take a moment to recover from the vicelike grip. Then, with their wits regained, they scoop up their bags. 

“Ready to go?” Melody asks.

“You bet! Shotgun!” Mabel cries, running to the car.

“Hey!” Wendy protests, chasing after her. The others laugh.

“She has you beat, Wend!” Melody snickers, hopping into the driver’s seat.

“You watch your back, Mabel. That won’t happen twice,” Wendy threatens playfully. Mabel sticks her tongue out at the older girl. Wendy draws her finger across her neck, that huge grin still plastered over her cheeks.

It was like they had never left.

Soos and Melody lugged the bags up to the kid’s room while Wendy showed them around the shack. A number of new exhibits were in place, and she wanted to be sure that they saw all of them. A few other minor renovations had taken place—triangular rugs had all been tossed out and replaced with circular ones, for example. They were little details that no one mentioned but everyone noticed. Neither Dipper nor Mabel knew exactly how they felt about it, and Wendy could tell the uncertainty was a source of discomfort for the two. It was unsettling for her as well. But, as it happens, triangles are far from avoidable in this place, so it was best to remove what they could and learn to stomach the rest. 

“I was really surprised to hear that you guys were coming up so early,” Wendy says, leaning on the railing around a particularly lame stuffed creature of some nondescript variety. 

“Our spring break is two weeks this year,” Dipper explains.

“Yeah! We wanted to come up here and see you guys again since we had all this extra time!” Mabel adds.

Wendy nods a little, crossing her arms. “Yeah, sure. It’s pretty awesome, I’m so happy to see you. Mine doesn’t start until next week though.”

“Oh…” Dipper says, looking a bit put out. Wendy raises an eyebrow and smiles.

“I still work here, you know. I’ll just be here in the evenings only is all.”

“And then you can come hang out all day next week,” Mabel offers. Wendy nods.

“You bet, kid.”

A moment of silence falls over them as they search for something to say. The setting sun shines through a window, casting a triangular block of yellow light on the floor near them. Three pairs of eyes snap to it instantly, three bodies tense, and then three quiet sighs are released at once.

“So… You two been… doing okay?” Wendy asks eventually, her voice a bit softer than it had been. Dipper nods, shuffling in place, his eyes still on the floor. Mabel carefully takes his hand.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” she says, giving Wendy a smile. “School has been going pretty well so far.”

“Oh yeah? That’s great to hear.”

Another little pause settles in the air.

“Just so you know, I haven’t heard from your grunkles,” Wendy warns, “I don’t think they’ll be here any time soon.”

“Yeah, that’s okay,” Mabel says, “We figured.”

“You guys haven’t heard from them either?” Dipper asks. Wendy shakes her head.

“I mean, we got some postcards a couple weeks ago, but nothing actually recent. Why? Have you not been talking with them regularly?”

“Well,” Mabel explains hesitantly, “We had been… But they kind of just… went quiet suddenly.”

“Went quiet?”

Dipper nods. “No word from them at all for a whole month.”

Wendy bites her lip a little. She knows better than to try for nonchalance. “I’m sure everything’s fine, Dipper. They probably just broke something.”

“Yeah, see?” Mabel says with a smile, lightly elbowing her brother. “Wendy thinks I’m right.”

Dipper huffs. “This isn’t like them, okay?”

“They’re klutzes! I bet they just busted their radio or something,” Wendy says, rolling her eyes and waving off the concern. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah,” Mabel says with a firm nod. “I bet we’ll hear from them real soon.”

From across the shack, they hear the phone at the front desk ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more casual happenings, nothing too big. This is the time to take a few breaths and enjoy the calm. The eye of the storm doesn't last forever, after all. As always, thanks so much for reading.


	13. Chapter 13

Perhaps it was foolish to have expected any different. When the doctor listed off the conditions that increase the healing time for a concussion, it was like a checklist of traits specifically selected to suit Ford: over 40, pre-existing condition, anxiety or depression, lack of rest, source of significant stress. Even so, Stan had hoped that it would fade in a week, maybe two if they were unlucky. 

As the third week drew to a close, however, it had proven itself to be a ridiculous notion, as Ford and the entire attending staff all knew it was. 

He does seem to be improving, though; with some luck, they figure they can leave in a few more days. Ford interprets that as “another week, maybe a week and a half”. 

Even with his pessimistic outlook on his recovery, Ford is persistent and impatient. The longer he is stuck in this damn place, the more urgent he is to leave. There is no time for this nonsense. The most frustrating thing for him is how they are restricting his movement. The limp that remains from his hip injury is a source of constant worrying for the hospital staff, and Ford is sure that if he hears another suggestion for a mobility aid, he will probably smack someone. The limp is fine, the limp is nothing. For now, it’s the dizziness that worries him, but he knows it will clear up in time. And until that time comes, he does not want to be confined to a bed all day, as much as the nursing staff seems to think he should be.

He gets his way periodically, of course, as permanent bedrest does more harm than good. Everyone seems to agree that he should be up walking around each day; the dispute is in how often and for how long. The dizziness and the limp together do make walking a bit of a struggle, Ford can’t deny it; but as the difficulty wanes, his eagerness to be up and pacing is on the rise. Stan revels in it silently. 

After all, Ford needs something to lean on still. And he sure as hell isn’t going to use a walker or a cane. As it turns out, Stan makes for an excellent stand in for these items.

And as of late, it’s the only way Stan can get physical affection from his brother.

He hooks his arm under Ford’s, snaking it around his back. Ford can lean on him comfortably this way, with no risk of sudden balance loss. He has been out of bed for around a half hour so far, and that doesn’t even include the other time earlier in the day. Having the opportunity to stretch out his legs is heavenly.

“You getting tired, Poindexter?” Stan asks, smiling at Ford.

“Not at all,” Ford replies, 

His actual ability to walk is no more hindered than it had been already; it’s just that damn dizziness. If he had his way, he wouldn’t be leaning on anyone. 

He doesn’t get his way particularly often these days.

A light tap on the door draws the attention of both men. “You have visitors,” says a nurse through the closed door. Stan and Ford grin.

“Well let ‘em in then, no need to draw out the suspense!” Stan says, and the door bursts open immediately. Two very excited young teenagers attach themselves to his leg.

“Grunkle Stan!” they both cry. He kneels down and pulls them into a tight hug, one in each arm. 

“Hey kids,” he says, that dopey grin just getting wider as he squeezes them. “So the plane tickets got to you okay then?”

Dipper nods. “Thanks for sending them…”

“What, there’s no way I was gonna make Soos drive you all the way up here!” Stan looks up over their heads. “Speaking of Soos, isn’t he with you too?”

“I’m right here, Mr Pines,” chirps Soos, whose arms are filled with suitcases. “Just had to carry all the stuff!”

Stan straightens up and grabs a few of them from him. “Set ‘em down, set ‘em down!” he commands, plopping the ones he had taken down on the room floor. Once Soos’s hands are clear, Stan claps him on the shoulder and shakes one of them hard. “Good to see you, Soos. You been keeping the shack running?”

Soos glows. “Yes sir, Mr Pines! It’s doing great! The customers love the statue of you!”

Stan starts to reply, but his remark is cut off at the hilt by Mabel. “Grunkle Ford!” she says loudly, grabbing his hand. “You should be sitting down!” 

Ford smiles down at her and allows her to lead him over to a chair. “I’m alright, Mabel,” he says to her while taking a seat anyway. “Really.”

“You are not!” she scolds emphatically, “Grunkle Stan told me all about how you got hurt! You need to rest until you feel better!”

Stan grins at his brother over their niece’s head. “Hear that, Sixer?”

Ford rolls his eyes, blatantly stifling a smile. “Yes, Stanley, I hear that.”

“Good!” Mabel says, grabbing a blanket off of the hospital bed and spreading it carefully over her grunkle’s legs. Ford rolls his eyes again, but the little blush spreading across his cheeks betrays his happiness. “I brought some cookies for you and Grunkle Stan,” she says, hurrying to her bright pink, sparkly backpack (with hand embroidered stars, which she had added to it during a free period at school one day). She whips out a tupperware container of well iced, sprinkle-laden treats and hands three to Ford. “See, they’re shaped like little trees!”

“Yes, they’re excellent,” he praises. 

“They taste good too,” says Dipper, reaching to take one. 

“Hey! You already had your share!” Mabel chastises, yanking the tin out of his reach.

Stan laughs and grabs one. “These all for us then?”

Mabel nods with a grin, earning a groan from Dipper and Soos alike. Stan passes Soos the one in his hand and takes a new one. 

After her cookies have been distributed and the empty tin set aside, Mabel turns her attention back to Ford. She grasps his free hand—the one not filled with rainbow baked goods—and looks him directly in the eye.

“Grunkle Ford, are you feeling okay?” she asks, a hint of sternness in her voice.

He is rather taken aback, a few technicolour crumbs dotting his chin. He swallows the mouthful of cookie before replying, “Yes, I’m quite alright.” After being hit solidly with an accusatory Mabel stare, he adds, “Of course, I am not absolutely ideal, but I’m not bad.” He wipes his mouth on his hand. “Pain is limited.”

“Oh good!” she says happily, squeezing his hand. 

“Head still bugging you?” Stan asks with his brow quirked, an accusatory grin of his own spreading across his cheeks. “You hadn’t told me that.”

Ford sighs and squeezes Mabel’s hand back. “You’re going to get me in trouble if you keep making me share these things.” Mabel laughs. 

“So… What happened, Dr Pines?” Soos asks curiously. 

Ford spends a particularly long time holding his current bite of cookie in his mouth. Eventually, he replies with a question. “Did Stanley not tell you?”

Mabel frowns and shakes her head. “He just said that something happened and you were in the hospital. I figured it was your leg that you hurt.”

“That’s what it is, isn’t it?” Dipper asks.

Ford sighs a little. “No, it’s a bit more… complicated than that…” His discomfort in discussing the subject is quite clear in his voice. Stan bites his lip and steps in, plopping a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“It’s nothing to worry about for now, kids,” he says, “He’s almost outta here.” Then, once he’s sure that Ford won’t see, he mouths, “I’ll tell you about it later. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Soos plops down on the vacant bed with a smile. “That’s good to hear, Dr Pines! I bet you wanna get back on the boat soon.”

Ford smiles and nods. “Yes, yes, that would be ideal. There’s surely a lot left for us to observe, after all.”

“What kinda stuff have you seen?” Soos asks curiously. Ford’s face lights up fully.

“Stanley, pass me the journal,” he commands, squirming in the chair to achieve a fully upright, rather scholarly posture. “I would like to share our discoveries with Soos”

Stan gives Soos a thankful smile and retrieves the book, plopping it in Ford’s lap. “There ya go, Sixer. Tell him about the kraken, that one was my favourite.”

Ford excitedly flips through the pages, saying enthusiastically, “Oh yes, yes! We took many dynamic and informative pictures of the kraken!” He glances up at Stan. “You tried to tell me to drop the camera and let you focus on evasive manoeuvres, but we never would have gotten that shot of its mouth if I had listened!” 

“Wow, that sounds amazing, Dr Pines!” Soos gasps.

“Yeah, sure, you can say that, but try actually being stuck in the boat that thing is chewing on,” Stan grumbles.

Ford begins his lengthy, energetic, fully illustrated stories of adventure, orating to the clearly enthralled Soos. Stan takes advantage of his distraction, touching Dipper’s shoulder and gesturing for him to follow. He tugs Mabel’s sleeve and repeats the signal, and the three of them carefully slip out the door and into the hall outside the room. Stan wonders if this was Soos’s plan. He grins fondly at the thought; maybe he really could scheme if he tried. 

“So you’re going to tell us what’s going on, right?” Dipper asks, taking Stan’s mind off of whether or not the distraction was intentional. The kid’s voice is strained, his expression bordering on spooked, his gaze rather shifty. Mabel gives him a worried look. 

“You okay, kid?” Stan asks, his brow furrowed.

“Something bad, right? Something bad enough that Grunkle Ford won’t talk about it?” An unpleasantly sharp voice crack interrupts Dipper’s anxious inquiry.

Stan bites his lip, then kneels down to bring himself to the kids’ level. “Look, Ford doesn’t… He doesn’t know everything that’s going on right now… And if I tell you, you’ve gotta promise to not tell him.”

The twins share a glance. “Why?” Mabel asks.

“Because if he knows, he’ll stop sleeping again. And if he doesn’t sleep, he’ll have problems.”

“Grunkle Stan… Why?” Mabel repeats, taking his hand. Stan hadn’t noticed that it was shaking.

Stan looks from Mabel to Dipper. He swallows hard. “He had a seizure and whacked his head on the deck. Concussed himself.”

“Really…?” Mabel whispers, disbelief in her voice. “A seizure…?”

“Yeah, yeah. Because of what that…” Stan stops himself mid-sentence to avoid swearing in front of the kids. A faint snicker echoes in his head, and he grits his teeth. “What you know who did.”

“You mean Bill…?” Dipper asks. Stan nods.

“Yeah. Him.”

The twins are quiet for a moment, absorbing this information. Worry is etched on both of their faces. Then, a flash of confusion crosses Mabel’s. 

“Wait, Grunkle Ford has to already know about that…” she says slowly, “You can’t hide something that happened to him from him.”

Dipper catches onto her thought and continues it. “So what is it that you don’t want him to know?”

Stan pauses, trying to stitch together an explanation. The persistent snickering, so faint that it’s almost not there at all, makes it even harder than it already might have been. 

“Okay, I don’t really know how to say it, so I guess I’ll just spit it out,” Stan says eventually, squeezing Mabel’s hand. “Bill’s… Bill’s back.”

Despite the bustling noises of the hospital around them, they could swear the hall is dead silent. The twins stare at him with wide eyes. 

“What?” Dipper peeps after what feels like an eternity.

“He’s not dead. He was just…” Stan laughs bitterly. “Just waiting around in my head. Ford can’t know; if he quits sleeping, he’ll have more seizures.”

“Wh… What do we do?!” Mabel gasps, grabbing her brother’s hand with the one not already clutching Stan. Dipper is trembling.

Stan looks between the two kids, then pulls them both into a tight hug. “I don’t know,” he says, squeezing them tightly. They hug him back. “But we’ll figure out something. I promise.”

The muted snickering in the back of his head gets much louder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hnng okay so I know this is unusually late, but it is that time of year. You know the one. Eugh. Hopefully back on track after this. Either way, thanks so much for reading! I hope everyone has been enjoying their fluffy vacation away from Angstville.


	14. Chapter 14

The trunks of hundreds, probably thousands of trees whiz by the car window as it traverses the lumpy, bumpy, barely paved road. No one would bother to build a freeway out here, so far into the Oregon wilderness. Freeways are for cities, not tiny towns and the tinier residences sequestered a distance outside of them. 

The passengers are bounced rather mercilessly by the dips and lumps in the path. Soos’s head hits the roof once or twice, victim to the slightly raised middle “seat”, sandwiched between the twins. Ford is settled in the front passenger seat, his head leaning on his hand. The entire car is quiet as Stan drives, letting the kids snooze and in the hope that Ford will as well. He has no intention of doing so. 

Returning to Gravity Falls was Soos’s suggestion. It’s a compromise; Ford gets to leave the hospital, but no one is back on the water too soon. Stan had jumped at the idea immediately. He has, so to speak, some errands to run, the tools for which are only available in the town. 

Stan has felt rather scrutinized over the past few days, between Ford’s uneasy observance and the twins’ more intentional gaze. He doesn’t mind the kids watching him; hopefully, they’ll be able to do something quickly if Bill decides to try any funny business. He isn’t exactly confident in the safety of this idea, but he hasn’t heard anything from Bill in a little while. He can almost convince himself it won’t come up anyway.

Almost.

He glances away from the road and across the car for a moment. Ford has his back turned to the driver’s side, his head still propped on his hand and his eye stuck out the window at the passing trees. He hadn’t wanted to do this at all; he’s dying to get back on the boat, paranoia or no. Stan had felt pretty terrible about the mess when they were putting the Stan O War II in temporary storage and Ford looked as grim as a guy finding out both his parents were dead. But it just doesn’t seem safe yet. Stan keeps telling him to rest and heal so they can get back out there faster, but that’s not the actual reason they aren’t on the water right now.

Stan has some things to take care of first. 

He tightens his grip on the wheel slightly, his knuckles turning white. What exactly he’ll be doing is beyond him. His knowledge of Bill isn’t great; he had been quite singularly focused on the portal when he studied the journals before, paying no attention to the entries regarding the demon. He wishes he had taken the time to pay them more mind. Now that the journals are gone, he’ll have to rely on whatever scraps of information are left behind, straggling about the shack. There’s no guarantee there will even be anything at all.

But it’s all he has to go on, so he’ll have to make do somehow. 

The car hits a particularly severe bump, tossing the riders about. Soos and Mabel stay fast asleep, but Dipper is roused; Stan can see his open eyes and startled face in the rear view mirror. 

“You okay, kid?” he asks, keeping his voice quiet. Dipper doesn’t respond for a moment as he regains his bearings. Then, he nods. “We hit a pothole, that’s all. Go back to sleep.” 

Dipper swallows, scanning Stan’s face. Stan keeps his gaze in the mirror so Dipper can see the decidedly not yellow eyes. He seems to relax, but only a tiny bit.

“We’re nearly there, Dipper,” Ford says, making them both jump. “You might be better off just waiting until we arrive.” 

Stan’s gaze flicks over to his brother after a brief stop on the road, as a responsible driver might consider doing occasionally. “Oh, you awake too, Sixer?” he asks, trying to be as casual as possible.

Ford glances back at him, then sighs. “You know I don’t do very well with naps, Stanley.”

“I mean, you know…” Stan says awkwardly, gesturing vaguely. “It’s a long drive and all, thought maybe you would’ve had one.”

“Mm,” Ford says, turning back to the window. Stan sighs. It’s hard to say if this is him holding a grudge or just avoiding gazes, as he is prone to doing lately. 

Stan grits his teeth and grips the wheel tightly again. Just how far out in the woods is this damn shack? It never feels this long when he’s out getting goddamn groceries. 

He glances back at Ford again, then hesitantly reaches out to lay a hand on his brother’s back. A dark chuckle echoes in his mind, and he freezes. He quickly yanks it back.

“It’s just a matter of time, kid!” Bill tells Stan, the voice bouncing around in his skull. “It’s just a matter of time.”

Stan is silent, setting his jaw and turning an intensely determined focused stare back on the road ahead. He feels no need to question the statement, as acknowledging Bill at all would be admitting defeat. Even so, he can’t help but wonder. 

A matter of time until what?

 

 

They reach the shack well after nightfall, the clearing around the shack lit by the moon. Throughout the drive, the thick canopy of trees had kept any such light blocked out, preventing them from seeing the sky above. As Stan helps Soos unload the trunk, his gaze is drawn upward. 

A full moon. 

He scoffs, a huge grin spreading across his face. That had been one hell of an adventure, the werewolf experience. He imagines the guy tying himself to a post or something to keep his sheep safe. 

Ford laughs, and Stan looks over at him. His brother’s gaze is on the moon as well, and he wears a matching grin. Then, he glances back at Stan. Their eyes meet. 

“You… You thinking what I’m thinking?” Stan asks hesitantly. Ford folds his arms over his chest. 

“I wonder if he’s doing alright,” Ford replies. Stan’s grin returns with new zeal. 

“You hungry? I can make you a peanut butter sandwich if you want,” Stan offers, and Ford laughs again. 

“What’s so funny about that, Dr. Pines?” Soos asks curiously.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he dismisses, “It’s just something that happened during our werewolf escapade.”

“That one was one of my favourites!” Soos gushes, “It sounded so cool!”

“It was pretty cool,” Stan cuts in, adjusting the suitcases in his arms. “Now let’s get inside already before we run into one here.”

“There aren’t any werewolves in Gravity Falls!” Mabel pipes up from the front door.

“That’s what I said about unicorns, you know!” Stan calls back, lugging the bags over to where she stands. He ruffles her hair. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Yup, it was fine,” she chirps, taking her backpack from his pile. Then, she lowers her voice. “Are you alright still…?” she asks worriedly, her gaze shifting past him to where Ford is lingering behind and watching the sky still. Stan glances over his shoulder too, making sure he isn’t within earshot.

“Nothing happened, I promise,” he tells her firmly. “I’m not letting that triangle do anything.”

She bites her lip, her worriedness clearly unabated. That awful chuckle echoes in Stan’s head again and he grits his teeth, anger bubbling up in his chest. 

“Let’s get your beds set up,” Stan says, distracting himself and his niece. After juggling around his load, he claps a hand on her shoulder and leads her inside. He pauses just inside the doorway and looks back behind him. Ford is still eyeing the moon. “Hey, Sixer, you coming?” Stan asks. Ford jumps and looks over. He smiles sheepishly.

“Yes, of course. I was just…” he trails off.

“Just thinking?” Stan prompts, leaning on the doorframe. 

Ford sighs. “Yes, just thinking.” He approaches the door, and Stan can see the limp with a fresh and unforgiving clarity. His grip on the suitcases tightens. “I wonder what that man is doing about his issue?”

“The werewolf guy? If I were him I’d just tie myself to a tree or something.” Stan desperately wants to run over and offer his brother a hand; the limp is agonizing to watch. But the last thing he needs is for Bill to take advantage of an opportunity like that. So, he stands idly. 

“Yes, yes, that would likely suffice…” Ford mutters, carefully mounting the porch. The step feels a lot taller than it used to, when he didn’t have a hip injury.

At any other time, Stan would have dropped the bags and helped him. But the fear of Bill keeps him held back. 

There are no words for how thick the hatred boiling in his chest is.

 

 

The next morning, Stan gets out of “bed” (the couch) and immediately sequesters himself down in the basement. He had cleared out well before anyone else could even wake up, so as everyone else wandered downstairs, the couch was empty and the evidence of it having been a makeshift bed had all been erased. This was a rather distressing discovery.

Mabel had yelled down the stairs to him about what he’d like for breakfast, and he claimed to not be hungry. She would not take that sitting down. So she recruited the other residents of the shack as kitchen helpers and set to work in making an adequately Mabel breakfast.

Dipper watches her dump food colouring into the liquid ingredients with a slight grimace. “Do you need the waffles to be THAT purple?”

“Yes, of course!” she exclaims, whisking it vigorously. “Did you add sprinkles to the dry stuff?”

“Won’t that affect how it bakes?”

“I doubt it will,” Ford pipes in from his seat at the counter. He has an ice pack against his hip, per Mabel’s insistence. “Just substitute out an equivalent amount of sugar. I’m sure a tablespoon won’t upset the chemistry.”

“Yes! See, I told you!” Mabel taunts playfully, and Dipper groans.

“They’re going to stain our mouths purple!” he protests despite knowing that any effort is futile at this stage.

“I know! Isn’t it great?!”

Ford chuckles. “Make sure you don’t stir it too much when you add the wet to the dry,” he instructs, watching the twins’ work carefully. “You could overmix it and degas the batter, and it won’t be soft inside.”

“How much is too much?” Dipper asks, reaching over to snatch the spoon from Mabel at a moment’s notice.

“Just until it’s lumpy but fully combined.”

Mabel giggles. “Lumpy.” 

Dipper rolls his eyes. “You’re unbelievable,” he says. Mabel sticks her finger in the bright purple batter and smears it on his nose. He yelps and vigorously wipes his face on his arm. “Hey!” he protests, and she laughs harder. 

“Now now, children, stop. We don’t want a food fight breaking out,” Ford says quickly. 

“What if we DO want a food fight breaking out?” Mabel asks innocently. Dipper narrows his eyes at her and reaches for the spoon. She hugs the whole bowl to her chest to keep it out of reach. He sticks his tongue out at her and she gladly returns the favour. Ford shakes his head at them.

“Why don’t you add some chocolate chips?” he suggests, hoping to restore peace to the kitchen.

“Oh, yes, yes!” Mabel lights up. Then, she directs Dipper, “Go get the bag!”

He brings it over and picks up a measuring cup. She shakes her head hard at him. “What?”

“Just dump them in, as many as you can!” she insists. 

Dipper considers arguing, but shrugs and does as she suggests. More chocolate never hurt.

Ford raises a brow. “Are you making waffles or waffle-shaped chocolate discs?”

“Chocolate discs?! That’s a great idea, Grunkle Ford!” Mabel gasps.

Dipper snatches the bowl from her and fills the iron carefully, double and triple checking the amount against what the diagram on the side of the iron suggests. Before long, they have a plate of violently purple, chocolate laden breakfast pastries.

“Well, that is certainly a colourful plate,” Ford comments with a grin.

“They’re gorgeous!” Mabel coos.

“I’ve never seen so much chocolate,” Dipper whispers, watching molten goo ooze from the fluffy purple. 

Ford takes one and cuts into it. A huge glob of chocolate gushes from the centre. “Wow,” he says, “These are certainly a batch to remember.”

Mabel excitedly stuffs her face with the sweet purpleness. “They’re delicious!” she proclaims, shoving a plate at Dipper. Then, she flops two onto a different plate and hops down from her chair. “I’m taking some to Grunkle Stan!” she announces, then scurries from the room before anyone can reply.

The door to the basement is locked, but her summer with Stan would have been highly questionable if she had never learned to pick a lock. So, within a few minutes, she’s creeping down the stairs as delicately as possible, hoping to preserve the surprise. 

She can hear Stan mumbling to himself and frequently shuffling papers about. A careful peek around the corner informs her that he’s huddled over a desk in the dark, wearing nothing but his boxers and what has to be the most disgustingly stained undershirt he owns. The strange scar on his shoulder is quite visible in the muted light of the monitors that flicker over his head. Mabel looks from one screen to another, then back to Stan. She holds her breath in the hopes of catching some of his words.

“Anything about Bill… Come on, anything at all…” he mutters, shuffling through papers. Then, he hisses to himself, “Shut the hell up already, I’m sick of you laughing at me like that.” 

Mabel’s grip on the plate tightens. She’s sure she already knows the answer, but she hesitantly asks anyway, “Who’s laughing at you, Grunkle Stan…?”

He jumps up so fast that the chair he hadn’t really been sitting in falls over, making Mabel jump as well. It’s only because of luck that she keeps herself from dropping the breakfast in her slightly shaking hands. 

“Mabel! What are you doing down here?!” he asks quickly, shoving the papers on the desk aside. “The door was locked!”

“You taught Dipper and me both how to pick locks…” she says hesitantly, “Don’t you remember…?”

Stan tenses up. No, he doesn’t remember. That awful, horrible, wretched laughter boils up in his mind, making him grit his teeth so hard that his jaw hurts. 

“Awww, poor Stanley Pines is having memory problems!” Bill taunts. It’s the first thing he’s said in quite a while, and Stan’s face goes white at the sound of his voice. “Bet you wish you hadn’t used that gun!”

He resists the urge to retort for Mabel’s benefit. She looks frightened, and he has already let silence hang in the air for far too long.

“Yeah, yeah, of course I remember,” he lies, “Just didn’t think about it. What’s that you’ve got?”

Mabel holds out the plate. “We made waffles…” she says.

“Thanks, sweetie, but I said I wasn’t hungry,” he protests as he takes the plate anyway.

Mabel puts her hands on her hips and scolds, “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day! You don’t get to skip it!” 

Stan smiles some and ruffles her hair. Then, he quickly yanks his hand back. He had forgotten about his decision to touch no one, lest Bill take over. That’s not a mistake he can afford to repeat. “Why don’t you go have yours then?” he says, hoping not to dwell on it for too long.

“Promise you’ll eat it?” Mabel asks. 

Stan nods solemnly. “I promise, kid,” he says with absolute sincerity. Mabel hesitates before turning to troop back upstairs, relocking the door behind her.

Stan tries to sink into his chair and is harshly reminded that it had fallen over. He quickly scoots the dropped waffles back onto the plate and picks up both himself and the chair. He plops into his seat properly and sighs, taking hold of the fork. As he slowly works his way through his meal, his eyes skitter over the pages, trying to find his place. His panicked shoving had completely shuffled them, and the order is thrown off. He’ll have to start over.

“I don’t regret what I did,” he mutters angrily, “It was the best decision I ever made.”

“Like hell it was, you’re a MESS,” Bill teases, the echoing tones bouncing around Stan’s brain. “Now you’re skimming through thirty year old scrap paper in a basement in your underwear, forgetting everything you care about! Pathetic, disgusting!”

He knows it’s only an attempt to upset him, but damn, if it isn’t ever working. Stan grips his fork so tightly that it bends in his fist. 

The papers spread around him have offered nothing. Neither have the computers nor the bits of rubble. He won’t find anything, and he knows it. There’s nothing to find. 

He plops the plate down on the desk and buries his face in his hands.

Pathetic is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is making it through exams alright, and I envy those of you who don't have to deal with them at all. Once those are passed, I should be back on updating schedule; until then, it'll likely remain spotty. Thank you dearly for reading, as always; I'm forever honoured by how much people seem to enjoy! Only good things are coming! :3


	15. Chapter 15

Mabel stands on a chair at the sink washing dishes from breakfast. She had insisted on completing the chore on her own; it would give her some space and time to think. She certainly has a lot to mull over.

The sink is flooded with foam. She had taken on the same attitude with dishwashing as she holds with bubble baths: half a bottle of soap in one go is the only correct way to do it. The suds and bubbles go all the way up her arms when she plunges her hands in to grab a plate; they cling to her skin even after she pulls away. They’re too small to pop, but a good shake sends them flying into the air, where they fall halfheartedly and plop in tiny mounds like feather-light jello. They even jiggle. It never gets old. 

However, as much as she would like to spend the whole morning playing in bubbles, there is a task to do. She takes a scouring pad to the flecks of batter that had dried to the mixing bowl. They had affixed themselves to the plastic surface with the determination of barnacles. She chews her lip as she scrubs. 

Stan is still downstairs; she would have heard if he had come up. He’s probably still huddled over that pile of scrap paper, searching for something. He hadn’t said what exactly; something about Bill and that’s all. There had been a lot he didn’t say, actually. 

He didn’t really need to. 

“I’m sick of you laughing at me like that,” Stan’s mutter plays in her head. There hadn’t been anyone else there, not that she had seen. That didn’t leave many possibilities for what it could be. 

Mabel scrubs a bit harder. She had reached a particularly large and resilient patch that demands quite a lot of manpower. She imagines it yellow and triangular and attacks it zealously.

It had to have been Bill, nothing else makes sense. If someone else had been down there, she would have seen them. Not to mention the fact that she hadn’t heard any laughter herself. The sound was in Stan’s head, and she certainly hasn’t forgotten what else is in there.

Although, it’s… technically possible that it hadn’t been. It could still be something else. A trick, maybe. A trick brought on by lack of sleep. The dark bags under her grunkle’s eyes certainly don’t inspire confidence in his sleeping habits. He had been up so early this morning, too. Yes, that’s possible, perfectly possible. Entirely plausible, even! She clings to the thought, that maybe he just needs to sleep it off.

But he had said Bill is in his head. It has to be Bill.

Maybe it’s alcohol or something. She has found bottles of liquor around the shack before, but she never really sees him drinking. Maybe he keeps it under wraps, maybe it’s the sort of thing that he saved for after the kids went to bed. And with a past like his, she has no sense of doubt in her mind that he’s well acquainted with alcohol, even if he skirted around that piece of the story. Drinking makes people’s imaginations go wild, and he must’ve imagined the sound. It’s possible. Plausible. 

But he said Bill is in his head. 

Maybe that’s the part that he imagined. Bill’s dead, everyone saw it happen. Saw the gun, saw the destruction, saw the finality. She shivers. She doesn’t like thinking about this. But it’s true, Bill’s supposed to be gone. How can he possibly still be here and in his head? 

But there’s no way he would have mentioned it if he wasn’t certain. He didn’t talk about Ford at all until the man was right there, after all. Mabel’s sure that if he felt the need to tell her and Dipper, then it must be certifiable fact. 

So it’s Bill. It has to be. 

She shudders and pauses in scrubbing, leaning back and away from the sink. The news that Bill is still around hadn’t really set in properly when Stan said it; she’s still trying to wrap her mind around it. It’s a terrifying realization, a realization that has her heart pounding and her head spinning. She shouldn’t be so afraid; she faced him twice and defeated him with cats and tickles. She has a near unlimited supply of both. 

But it’s the final time that lingers in her mind. She has dreams of being squeezed; crushed and held twenty feet up in the air. Threatened with death. That had been the worst moment of her life, for certain. She leans on the counter and thinks about breathing, trying to keep herself from getting too upset. Getting upset won’t help. 

At this point, she’s the most clear headed, informed person here. She has to come up with a plan.

Mabel returns to the sink and plunges her arms back into the water, feeling around for the scouring pad she had dropped in her moment of panic. The rough scrape of looping material brushes against her fingertips at the bottom of the basin, and she snatches it. Suds tickle her nose, and she sneezes, plowing a hole into the mountain. She giggles, starting to relax. 

There must be something she can do. She knows there is, there always is. Nothing is hopeless. 

She scoops a small pile of suds into her palm and jiggles it, watching the bubbles tremble with the motion. Dipper read the journal a lot more closely than she ever had, so if there’s a way to defeat Bill in there, he probably knows it. But she really doesn’t want to get him involved until she has an idea. She knows that he won’t take well at all to the news that Bill is actually talking to Stan. Besides, he would’ve told her if he knew something about this. He wouldn’t keep a secret like that from her.

She pauses in playing with the suds. Hadn’t Ford said something about defeating Bill? She searches her mind for the memory, certain he would have told everyone. There was the rift, but it was destroyed. She never really understood what it did anyway; it probably wouldn’t be good to tamper with this stuff blindly. She remembers Dipper mentioning a gun when he explained what had happened during her “endless summer”; a gun that could destroy Bill. That might work. But then again, Bill would never let that go undestroyed, and if they still had it, they wouldn’t have resorted to the memory gun plan. 

Mabel shudders. 

They DEFINITELY wouldn’t have resorted to the memory gun plan.

She drops the suds back into their mountain and digs up a plate, returning to her determined washing. Being crushed and held twenty feet in the air while a demon threatened her life was probably the worst thing that happened to her that day, but the memory gun fiasco… once Stan’s memory had returned to him, a collective, unspoken decision to never bring it up was made. No one likes to remember it. 

But that’s not what she’s supposed to be thinking about. She’s trying to come up with a plan, not recalling the most miserable moments of her life.

Time for a bubble break.

She scoops up two handfuls of suds and tosses them into the air, watching them break apart and splatter lazily. The mountain in the sink is near unmanageably large anyway, she can sacrifice a good third of it to play. And that is exactly what she does: toss the bubbles around. Then, she hops off the stool and skids on the wet, slippery floor, converting the kitchen into a tiny, socks only skating rink. 

The sounds of activity appear from behind her, and she pauses her haphazard twirling. Sounds like the Mystery Shack just opened for business. She can hear Soos welcoming the first group of customers and immediately directing their attentions to the gift shop. She giggles; Stan would certainly be proud. 

Ford and Dipper said they would be helping out there today; Ford had never gotten to see the business in action and was rather curious. He was warned numerous times that the exhibits weren’t based on factual accuracy at all, and that he couldn’t go around correcting it or the customers would get angry and leave. He couldn’t understand why they were going to the trouble of fabricating exhibits when the entire town was riddled with ridiculously strange things already. Surely she’ll be hearing him griping about inaccuracies soon; he just isn’t the type to resist the urge to make those corrections. 

She finishes the little spins she had been doing and hops out of the suds, her feet making a soft squelching sound as her wet socks hit the floor. Her play had painted a circle into the bubbles.

Something occurs to her.

She furrows her brow and crosses the kitchen, carefully avoiding the soap. A notepad with the beginnings of a grocery list (chocolate chips, written in Ford’s all caps urgent writing and underlined thrice) is magnetically affixed to the fridge. She pulls it down and tears a page out of the middle, then digs out a pen. 

She hadn’t seen it many times, but she has a clear enough memory of what it looks like. A circle, with another circle inside. The symbols around the ring, ten of them; those she remembers, but not the order. She leaves the centre of the ring at a triangle. No need to finish that part.

The Cipher Wheel.

She immediately scampers across the kitchen, needing to get to Dipper right away. When her foot hits the patch of soap and water, it flies out from under her, and she hits the ground with a yelp, a thud, and a splash. There’s a momentary pause in the audible confusion across the shack, then she can hear her brother and great uncle excuse themselves. 

Dipper pops into the kitchen first. “Mabel, what happened?” he asks, starting to hurry over to her. 

“Wait, careful! The floor’s wet!” she yelps, “Don’t let Grunkle Ford come in, I don’t want him to fall over.”

“Are you hurt, Mabel?” Ford asks worriedly from behind Dipper, who is blocking the doorway.

“No, I’m fine,” Mabel says quickly, picking herself up. She’s damp and soapy, but that doesn’t matter right now. “Dipper and I have something we need to talk about on our own, okay Grunkle Ford? Go back to the Mystery Shack!” she rambles, too fast for anyone to react. She tugs Dipper into the room and shuts the door in Ford’s face. 

“What? What’s going on?” Dipper asks confusedly. 

“Sh!” she hisses, “No one can hear.” 

Dipper blanches. These days, something secret is always something bad. 

“I figured out how we can beat Bill,” she whispers. 

Dipper’s eyes widen. “What?” he peeps. Mabel nods eagerly. 

“We need to get Wendy and Soos so we can figure out exactly how, but I figured it out,” she gasps, getting breathless from excitement. She grips his hand tightly and pumps his arm. “Go, go get them! We’ll meet on the roof!” Then, she releases him and takes off running.

Dipper stands in the puddle on the floor, too stunned to move. Everything that Mabel had said came too fast, and it was too much to digest at once. 

She figured something out? How had she done that?! He was sure that the only one who would know how would be Ford; he was absolutely CERTAIN. 

But it wouldn’t be the first time his sister had pulled a miracle out of her back pocket. She does have the best track record of taking Bill down by now, he supposes. 

He opens the kitchen door again. Ford is leaning against the wall of the hallway nearby. Dipper tenses. Had he heard? 

Ford looks up when he hears the door. “Dipper!” he exclaims, standing up straight. “What’s going on?”

“N-Nothing,” Dipper squeaks, slapping a smile on his pale cheeks. “Let’s go back to the shack! I bet you could help Soos—” 

Ford frowns and cuts him off. “Dipper, what are you hiding from me?” 

Dipper bites his tongue hard, trying to gather himself enough to lie: “Nothing, I swear! I just… you know… was worried about Mabel…”

Ford looks at him critically, searching for the tell that he’s lying. He had hoped he could trust the kids, but it seems like they’re as stubbornly insistent on keeping him in the dark as his brother is. He grits his teeth. Then, he exhales slowly, trying to calm himself. 

“Sure, of course,” he says, a bit of tenseness leaking into his tone. Dipper notices, but decides not to push his luck. 

They return to the business side of the shack, where Soos is wrapping up the first tour of the day. A small cluster of people have already gathered at the entrance, prepared to be taken on the second. Dipper hurries over to Soos and tugs his sleeve after the crowd had been set loose on the gift shop once again.

“What’s going on, dude?” Soos asks with a smile. 

Dipper stands on his toes and gestures for Soos to lean over. Then, he whispers in the man’s ear, “We need to go talk about something.”

Soos frowns a little. “I’ve gotta lead the tour though.”

“Grunkle Ford can do it! He’d probably like that!” Dipper exclaims.

Soos looks a little unsure, but another glance at Dipper’s urgent expression has him nodding hesitantly. He turns to Ford and smiles brightly. “Dr Pines, do you wanna do the next group?”

Ford raises a brow. “Really,” he says with a touch of bitterness. He knows what’s going on: they want him out of the way. Whether he should go along with it or not, he hasn’t decided yet. 

“Yeah! You can tell ‘em all sorts of stuff about town that I don’t know,” Soos suggests, “You know more about Gravity Falls than anyone, dude!”

An appeal to vanity. Ford huffs a little. They must really want to avoid him. 

“Fine,” he says, limping over. Soos hands him the eight ball cane and plops the fez on his head. Ford frowns. “What’re you doing?”

“It’s the uniform! You’re Mr Mystery today!” Soos explains. Then, he adds, “Well, Dr Mystery.”

Ford smirks in spite of himself. “Well… I suppose that has a nice ring to it.”

“Okay, have fun with that Grunkle Ford!” Dipper laughs uneasily, pushing Soos towards the door. He looks over at Wendy and gestures for her to come too. She shrugs and gets to her feet. Dipper can’t help but marvel at how easy she was to convince.

He pushes and pulls and prompts the two along as fast as he can manage, his heart pounding in his chest. Both Wendy and Soos find his urgency worrying.

“Dipper, what’s going on?” Wendy asks, walking briskly to match Dipper’s pace.

“Yeah, you’re acting weird, dude,” Soos adds, concern in his voice. 

“You can’t tell Grunkle Ford anything about it,” Dipper says.

“What? Why not?” Wendy asks. 

“Because he can’t know, it’ll freak him out too much.” Dipper pauses for a moment, trying to remember which way the ladder to the roof is. It had been a while. 

“What are you talking about?” Wendy demands.

Dipper shakes his head a little as if trying to knock his thoughts back into place. He rounds a corner and mounts the ladder quickly. “L-Look, uh… Bill’s back. He’s in Grunkle Stan’s head.”

Soos gasps. “What?! Why didn’t Mr Pines say anything?!” 

“Because Grunkle Ford can’t know!”

“Dipper, he’s exactly who we need to TELL!” Wendy points out, “He’s the only one who knows how to beat that jerk!”

“That’s what we need to talk about!” Dipper says, twisting a little to face them without getting off the ladder. “Mabel figured something out!” And with that, he starts to scramble up the rungs. Wendy and Soos exchange nervous glances and then follow.

Mabel is pacing around the small platform when the trio pull themselves up. It’s a bit cramped for four, especially when one of them is on the larger side, but they manage to all squeeze in. 

“I told them about what’s going on,” Dipper explains right away, wanting to waste no time. 

“You’ve got a plan?” Wendy asks.

Mabel pauses. “Sort of,” she says, “I know what we need to do, but I’m not sure what sort of stuff might happen…”

“Well, spit it out then!” Wendy insists.

Mabel holds out the piece of paper she had drawn the crude wheel on. Dipper takes it, and his eyes widen. “We never actually got to use the Zodiac stuff,” Mabel says quickly, “Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford started fighting before it could work. So I think we should try again and actually make sure we finish this time.”

“That’s… That’s a lot simpler than I was expecting,” Dipper muses. 

“Didn’t we just have to stand in a circle and hold hands?” Wendy asks confusedly.

Mabel nods eagerly, her long hair bouncing with the motion. “Yeah, yeah! So we just have to get everyone together I think!” She looks at Dipper. “Right?”

Dipper’s eyebrows knit together while he thinks. He imagines the journal pages in his brain, trying to remember if there were any caveats to the Cipher Wheel and the Zodiac. He can’t recall anything. “I think so…” he says, not quite wanting to commit to that yet.

“Wait wait wait,” Wendy says, shaking her head a little. “Stan and Ford were on that wheel too. They’re going to have to know.”

“We can’t tell them yet!” Mabel insists, “Grunkle Ford might get hurt, and… Bill’s in Grunkle Stan’s head; if we tell him then Bill will find out and stop us again.” That little issue hadn’t occurred to her until just then. A thick blanket of disappointment settles over everyone.

“Is there… some way we could tell Mr Pines without Bill finding out?” Soos asks.

“I don’t think so…” Dipper sighs. “I don’t think this will work…”

“It has to! It’s all we’ve got, Dipper!” Mabel cries, gripping her head. A sense of panic is starting to bubble up in her chest. “It has to work!”

“Mabel?” Dipper says worriedly, hesitantly touching her arm. “Y-You need to calm down…”

“No! I need to figure something out!” she gasps, her breath starting to come in a little short. Her mind is working much faster than normal, trying to spit out a course of action that will work, but all it can manage is what she had already said. She feels sick.

“Mabel, I think you should sit down,” Wendy says worriedly.

Mabel wipes her watering eyes on her sleeve. There’s no time for something like that; the longer this takes, the longer Stan has Bill stuck in his brain. She just has to come up with something, anything at all.

“What if we got Bill out of Mr Pines’s head?” Soos suggests suddenly. Everyone looks up at him. “He likes deals, doesn’t he? Maybe we can make one with him.”

Dipper shakes his head hard. “W-We shouldn’t do that, he always twists them around.”

Mabel grabs her brother’s hand, the panic dissipating rapidly. “No, no, I think that could work! We just have to be careful about what we offer and move fast afterwards! Dipper, if Bill isn’t in Grunkle Stan’s head, then we only need a few minutes!”

“We’d have to gather everyone else up ahead of time,” Wendy says quickly.

“What if he just traps everyone again?!” Dipper cries.

“Soos and I can do it somewhere far away from where you guys are,” Wendy suggests, a grin spreading over her face. “If Bill doesn’t know, he can’t do anything about it.”

“But… what would we offer?” Dipper asks, squeezing his sister’s hand nervously.

Mabel thinks for a few moments. “Something he would never turn down,” she says, smiling. “We let him into our world again.”

“What?!” Dipper looks completely horrified. “Why would we do THAT?!”

“Because he’ll take us up on it right away and get out of Grunkle Stan!” Mabel exclaims, bouncing in place from her building excitement. “We just have to be fast, Dipper! We can do it, this can work!”

“But… But…” Dipper protests, struggling to find the words for his concerns. 

“Come on,” Wendy encourages, “I know it’s… pretty terrifying. But I don’t think there’s much else we can do, Dipper. And we can’t just go down without a fight!”

“It’s not going to work…”

“Yes it will!” Mabel insists firmly, “It’ll work because we can make it work.”

“How are we even going to do it?” Dipper asks quickly, “We can’t just… invite Bill out, can we?”

“We can always just wait for him to show his face,” Wendy suggests, “You know, so he doesn’t realize you have something planned and just thinks you want to save Stan.”

“Yeah, yeah! Exactly!” Mabel says excitedly, clasping her hands together without releasing Dipper’s. “That’s what I was trying to say! We act like we’re just trying to get him away from Grunkle Stan! He’ll believe us, I’m sure of it!”

Dipper hesitates. He can’t deny the apparent solidity of the plan. It really sounds like it could work. But he knows it won’t, it could never.

But then again…

Everyone watches Dipper expectantly. “Well… What do you think?” Mabel prompts eventually, having grown impatient with the silence. Dipper sighs shakily, then nods. 

“Okay,” he says, then he takes a deep breath to calm himself. It can work. Mabel’s plans always seem to work. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you guys, but this has been a looooong week for me. I'm quite pleased to have gotten this finished; I was afraid that I would be super late with updating again! As always, thank you so very much for reading; whether you've been with me for months or just found it, I'm thrilled to have you along for the ride. Things are starting to get a little, ah... turbulent, so hold on to your hats.


	16. Chapter 16

Ford was surprised to find exactly how much he didn’t like running the Shack. He had hoped that his extensive knowledge of the town would be at least a little useful in running a tourist attraction completely based around the oddities he had devoted his life to studying, but the full extent of the inaccuracies in these exhibits was greater than he had originally thought. Dipper had said that it was to keep the attraction safe, that real exhibits were too dangerous. Even so, Ford would much rather be sharing real knowledge with the guests. 

He closed the shack as early as he felt was excusable—late in the afternoon, well before its usual dusk closing time. He simply found it too frustrating to relay all of the unfactual nonsense. So he chased everyone out with the eight-ball cane and locked the door before the sun had even begun to set, leaving himself alone in the display room.

After the bustling crowd that had occupied it all day, this part of the shack feels surprisingly wrong now that it’s silent. Ford leans against the door, keeping his weight off of his sore leg. The cane in his hands is too short to be fully functional. He had tried, hoping it might help his limp; instead, it just irritated his back because of how far he had to stoop over. He hasn’t felt this old in quite some time.

He takes the fez off his head, holding the stiff, red fabric rather delicately. It doesn’t look quite right on Soos’s head, and it certainly doesn’t feel right on his own. He fiddles with the bright yellow tassel, running his fingers through its strands. That is the price of having one role, one home for so long; as soon as you are removed from it, you are out of place, and you will remain that way until you can return to it. The hat has been away from its place for quite some time now. Ford lightly tosses it aside, where it lands on the counter overturned. He sighs softly.

It feels so quiet in here.

He regrets the decision to close down operations ever so slightly. He sure as hell doesn’t want to spew more nonsense about his passion, but he does miss having people talk to and listen to him. It was nice to feel acknowledged again. That particular way of gaining notice borders on repulsive, but the parts of him that aren’t disgusted by spouting all the nonsense tell him he made a mistake.

Something is definitely going on. He isn’t sure what that is, but there is no doubt in his mind that something is happening. Things have been slightly amiss for quite a while, since a month or two ago on the boat. His perception of time is hazy; there’s quite a large period in the midst of it all that he has limited or flawed memory of. Such is the price of neglecting sleep as severely as he had done. He laughs once. 

He really should know better than to do that by now. 

He wishes it didn’t feel so necessary.

The sound of a car door slamming outside makes him jump. He limps to the window and peeks through. Wendy and Soos are speeding away from the shack in Wendy’s banged up car, clearly rushed; Soos is still fumbling with his seatbelt, even as the vehicle vanishes into the trees. 

Strange. Neither of them had been available to run the shack, and yet they were both in the house still? Ford frowns and steps back from the view. Perhaps it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise. Asking him to take charge of the business was quite obviously a ploy to get him out of the way.

Something is going on.

Some part of Ford knows what it is. He remembers what he had seen, he’s smart enough to assemble the pieces. Stan has been completely out of sorts, hiding in the basement and avoiding all contact in every sense of the phrase. He hasn’t seen his brother at all since they arrived at the shack. 

Ford tightens his grip on the cane. He hadn’t realized the extent of Stan’s persistent avoidance until that moment. It seemed near impossible, but it was true. The kids were the ones to bring him food, as Ford found navigating the stairs challenging. He had taken up residence on the couch, himself. Those moments were the only interactions that anyone had experienced since that first day. Stan had holed himself up in the basement with all the determination of a termite infestation, refusing to extricate himself for even the barest moments of interaction.

And Ford hadn’t seen him once. 

Ford quietly crosses the gift shop and opens the door to the private quarter of the shack. He makes his way to the kitchen with uneven steps. The limp is frustrating: it slows him down to a pace that would have gotten him killed a few years ago. Anything that restricts his mobility makes him nervous; the idea of getting cornered is like a nightmare. Ford finds himself grimacing as he walks, not out of pain so much as frustration and carefully guarded anxiety.

He wants to keep his thoughts clear, unhazed by panic. There’s a lot to think about.

What he had seen on the boat has been a persistent image, one doggedly remaining glued to the inside of his eyelids. It had been glazed over and veiled some after his injury, as had the entire period of time leading up to it once he stopped sleeping. He can’t forget about this, though. Not when it appears in his dreams every time he dares to fall asleep. 

The flash of yellow behind square framed lenses, so brief that he still isn’t certain it hadn’t been a trick of the light.

But it makes an eerie amount of sense now.

If Ford had been somehow… secretly overtaken by Bill, he would want to avoid everyone too. He would keep his distance and be careful to touch no one. It’s a logical course of action, a responsible one at that. 

That must be what’s going on.

He doesn’t want to accept that, though. It’s too… drastic. After the sacrifices that were made to erase the demon from existence, Ford would like nothing more than to believe it had been a permanent defeat. 

He gets down a large mixing bowl and sets a pot on the stove. Soup is a meal inconvenient enough to fix his isolation, he presumes. It’s not the sort of thing one brings on a walk. Perhaps it will be enough to convince the scattered Pines to regather, and allow Ford some time to talk to them again. 

And to watch them for hints as to what’s happening.

He prefers to think about the cordial, familial half of his plan than the manipulative reconnaissance half. But if his mind allowed him to focus on what made him more comfortable, his life would likely have been much simpler than it is now. He awkwardly lugs an armful of vegetables from the fridge to the counter and sets to work cutting them into pieces. He can’t help but take notice of how large the knife is. He makes a note to hide the whole block somewhere less… accessible. 

Not that it would matter, of course… Simply a precaution.

Perhaps it isn’t what he thinks it is. That flicker had been so brief and fleeting that he still suspects it was something he imagined. He isn’t convinced that the entire conversation they’d had was real; it felt like a strange dream. 

A strangely real dream. But he is no stranger to those.

The hunks of food sizzle when they hit the bottom of the pot. He used to make soups all the time; they made for an easy way to throw together whatever scraps of edible substances he had scrounged up. With the right herbs, almost anything could be made mildly palatable in soup form. Making it so often during the arctic voyages had been second nature, although he had to significantly decrease the amount of salt he was used to using. Fish didn’t need masking in the same way that four day old, otherworldly “roadkill” did.

What would Bill want with Stan, even if he somehow is still alive? As far as Ford knows, the two have no real relationship. He doesn’t remember the two even conversing before Weirdmageddon, and even then, their interactions were limited to ones that hinged more around Ford. Ford’s suspicion would mean that Bill has been hiding in Stan, tormenting him exclusively. That seems like a curious road for Bill, who generally didn’t waste his time with people he has no use for.

Stan would have to have a use.

On that note, what exactly would Bill be trying to achieve? He had already failed to conquer the dimension once; wouldn’t it make sense to wait for a fresh generation of pawns? Ones that don’t already know not to trust him? That’s what Ford would do.

They’re not completely worthless points, but he knows they don’t actually matter. Bill prides himself in a lack of logic, after all. What Ford would do and what Bill would do couldn’t be more different. 

Canned chicken broth. What a convenience. He remembers trying to find liquid bases for soups in environments that had very little water to offer. This small can of flavoured stock would have been good enough to shed tears over had he found it four years ago. 

He finds that food still tastes far better than it had before he fell through the portal, even after more than a year of being home.

A simple soup like this doesn’t take long to prepare. He’s standing over a full pot in very little time. Thankfully, the shabby table is within arm’s reach of the dishes, which makes plopping full bowls on it a lot easier than it might have been. He hobbles to the door of the kitchen and shouts, “COME FOR DINNER!”

The kids come bounding in after only a few moments. Their faces are flushed and they seem almost breathless. 

“What were you up to?” Ford asks as he gestures to the table. The pair exchange uncertain glances before sitting. Ford shifts in place to block more of the door. 

“Oh, you know,” Mabel says confidently, brandishing a spoon in gesticulation, “Just talking with Soos and Wendy.”

“You know, they drove away in quite a rush just a little while ago,” Ford comments, trying to sound casual. Whatever is happening isn’t his niece’s nor his nephew’s fault, and the last thing he wants is to come off as accusatory. 

“Y-yeah,” Dipper says, his voice a lot more burdened than Mabel’s had been, “Soos wanted to get back to Melody and Wendy had homework.”

“Isn’t Wendy on break from school?”

“They still give you homework, Grunkle Ford!” Mabel giggles.

“Ah. It has been a while since I was in high school,” Ford replies with a genuine smile. Then he looks back out into the hall. “STANLEY!” he shouts. Both kids pause, the sounds of spoons against porcelain ceasing. 

“You’re calling him too?” Dipper asks, a notable but difficult to identify change in his tone.

“Yes, of course. He’s a part of this family and should eat with the rest of us.” Ford repeats his shout.

“I think he must be busy… I can take his food down to him!” Mabel offers.

“Soup is far too messy for that,” Ford counters, taking care to not come off as overly aggressive. 

The kids share another glance. Then, Mabel gets up. 

“I’ll go get him,” she says. Dipper hops to his feet as well.

“Me too,” he says, hurrying to the doorway with her. Ford steps aside for them, pursing his lips slightly. They run off, and he’s on his own again.

He sighs softly and takes a seat at the table, grunting. That oppressive sense of his age returns, and he grimaces. 

Maybe he should have been the one to retrieve Stan. He wouldn’t have to worry about the children not returning if he had. Then again, they could just as easily slip off if he left the room, and on the off chance Stan is… somehow dangerous, Ford wouldn’t be able to make nearly as swift of an escape as the pair. Even so, he feels slightly worried that something might go wrong.

He keeps an eye on the clock, and he can swear that it has never felt so slow. It only takes two minutes for the sound of footsteps to catch his attention, but it certainly felt much longer than that. He straightens up, acting as casual as he can. He coughs on his soup when the three come in.

Stan looks like he hasn’t bathed in a good five days. He wears only undergarments, which are stained with ink, sweat, and food. His eyes are darkly ringed, his hair is a mess, and he insistently avoids Ford’s gaze. 

“Hello, Stanley,” Ford says upon clearing his throat, “I made soup.”

Stan just grunts and picks up one of the bowls, leaning on the counter furthest from the table. The twins sit on either side of Ford. Almost as if they’re flanking him.

“There’s a seat at the table,” Ford offers after a few moments of quiet.

“I’d rather stand, Sixer. Thanks though,” he mumbles back. 

“Why?”

Stan shrugs. The twins share awkward glances across Ford. 

“This is a little silly, don’t you think?” Ford prods, frustration bubbling in his chest. This isn’t going to plan at all. They’re still ignoring him, except directly to his face now. They’re supposed to be talking to him.

Stan shrugs again. He sets the soup bowl down after only a quarter of it is gone. “Alright, I’m off again,” he says and goes to the doorway.

“Hey!” Ford protests, getting up quick enough to send a little burst of pain through his leg. Dipper and Mabel hop up too.

“Grunkle Ford, you should sit back down,” Mabel says, grasping his hand. Ford tugs it away and ignores her, approaching his brother.

“This is the first I’ve seen of you in days, Stanley,” he says coldly, “and you’re refusing to spare me more than a few words.”

Stan is tense, keeping his back turned. “Sorry Sixer. Just don’t have anything to say,” he says.

“That’s not excusable. What have you been doing? Tell me about that.” Ford folds his arms over his chest.

“Reading stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

Ford laughs. “Really. ‘Don’t worry about it’? Are you serious?”

Dipper and Mabel walk over hesitantly, wanting to break up the altercation but not knowing how. Dipper says quietly, “Grunkle Ford, I really think you should sit down again…”

“Not now, Dipper,” Ford says. He grasps Stan’s shoulder. “Stanley, stop dismissing me—” 

Stan slaps his hand away hard enough for it to sting. Ford yanks it back, surprised. Stan glares at him, his eyes slightly bloodshot. “Don’t touch me.”

Silence hangs in the room, shock on everyone’s face. Even Stan seems a bit surprised by his own intensity, dropping his hand instantly. Then, he turns and walks out in a hurry. 

The kids glance at each other then up at Ford. Guiltily, they rush out as well.

Ford is quiet, his hand stinging and turning red. He silently returns to the table and sinks into a seat. The soup goes cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed an official numerical cap on chapters that wasn't there before. This is a rough estimate with a margin of error around 2-3 chapters, but I thought people might like a sense of how much is left.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! It's about time we heard from Ford again.


	17. Chapter 17

The metal of his spoon had been cold when he first picked it up. A few minutes of careful fiddling and juggling the tool through his fingers have warmed it right up, as well as covered it in smudges. Everyone is gone again. It’s just Ford, on his own.

Apparently, no one else had been particularly hungry either. The kids had barely touched their food, and Stan called himself done after less than five minutes. Or maybe they were all just that eager to get away from Ford. He huffs and grips the spoon tightly.

At what point is it excusable to take this sort of snubbing personally? He has been telling himself firmly that there must be a reason, a reason that doesn’t have to do with him, for days. It had never been particularly soothing; if anything, it had just become more taunting and insulting as time went on. Does it even matter if there’s a reason for this? It’s a wretched thing to do either way.

It occurs to him that he should probably clean up the kitchen. Scrubbing the bowls would certainly fall on him whether he did it now or later, and if he did it later, the task would be much more tedious from food drying and sticking to the surfaces. 

Does chicken soup do that? He isn’t totally sure. Other worldly slime soup sure did, but it was a lot thicker than this broth. 

Regardless, he’s not going to clean anything right now.

He sets the spoon down and carefully gets to his feet. His hip complains. He tugs the freezer door open and pulls out a bag of frozen peas. Scribbled on the bag in black marker, slightly smudged from condensation, are the words “ICE PACK”. The peas must have been cheaper than an actual cold compress. He had used far worse than this, and feels no need to complain—not that anyone would hear him if he did anyway.

Leaving behind a mess, he makes his way out of the kitchen and to the living room. He eases himself down onto the couch, settles the peas on his hip, and flicks on the TV. Some ridiculous drama is on; he grimaces and flips through the channels until he finds something more suitable to his interests: an Animal Planet special on deep sea monsters. He scoffs as they showcase a giant squid with intimidating assurances of its power and size. 

“That’s nothing beside a kracken,” he tells the TV, “Those things can snap a ship three times that size in half. That there’s just a slightly larger than average squid.” The program pays no mind to his criticisms.

Ford is tired. Exceptionally tired. He hadn’t slept properly in quite a while, despite the risks to his health. It’s just not something that comes easily to him, not after so many years of it being an incredibly dangerous risk. A person can only gamble with their life so many times before they begin to grow wary of the game. 

The couch is surprisingly cozy, and light streams through the window in just the right spot to make him feel warm and, dare he admit it to himself, at ease. The makeshift ice pack is doing its job well, and the dull throb of pain he had become accustomed to over the past few months is practically unnoticeable. 

He’s no idiot. What’s about to happen is painfully obvious. He feels warm and comfortable, and his eyelids are growing heavy. It’s whether or not he should fight to stay awake that’s unclear.

If his suspicions—his wild, crazy suspicions—are somehow accurate, then it would be a terrible idea. But what actual, hard evidence does he really have? And what can he do about it anyway? 

Nothing. He can do nothing about it, especially when everyone is so insistent on keeping him in the dark.

He gives in. There’s no use in resisting. As he drifts off to sleep, he wonders idly what the process for getting a show on Animal Planet is. He certainly has far more interesting creatures to showcase than regular squids… 

 

 

Stan curses himself for having let the kids drag him upstairs. He knew it was a bad idea, a terrible idea. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to be swayed. 

He’d smacked his brother. 

It certainly wasn’t the first time they’d come to blows, and as far as things went, it was quite a tame thing to do. But Ford’s health is precarious. Stan has no idea exactly how far he can be pushed, and finding out by smacking him was not something he wanted to do. It had been a moment of idiotic weakness that he hates himself for reaching. What if he’d triggered something? He wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself. 

His mind is still frazzled by the lingering panic that had taken hold of him when he lashed out. It takes him more effort than normal to make sense of what’s in front of him. They’re the same crumpled scraps of paper he had been staring at before, and they’re just as dense with irrelevant knowledge as then too. 

He holds one of the pages in both hands while trying to read. Nothing makes sense; he can’t think clearly. He’s pretty sure he’s read that line five times before now, and he still isn’t sure what it says. This is useless. There’s nothing here. It’s all useless, and he’d smacked his brother.

Bill chuckles at him, and he snaps. 

“Shut the hell up already!” he shouts, slamming his fists on the desk. Bill laughs again.

“What’s the matter, Stanley? Figure out that this is a stupid plan yet?”

“Shut up,” he says again, grabbing a sheet of paper from further back on the desk and yanking it in front of himself. The burst of aggression had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

“Ooo, I’m real intimidated. You’re one scary guy!” Bill taunts. Stan’s head aches as if someone is pounding on the inside of his skull. 

“Shut up and leave me alone.” He should probably stop responding altogether. He resolves to do that.

“What’re you so bent out of shape for? It’s not like that’s the first time you’ve socked ole Sixer.”

Stan grits his teeth and says nothing, forcing himself to read. It’s a sheet of paper covered in equations, equations he only sort of recognizes from years of trying to assemble the portal. He flips it onto the back to find a few haikus, of all things. 

“Ignoring me now, are you?”

Stan still says nothing. His brother was always kind of weird, so maybe this shouldn’t be a surprising discovery. He skims the poems quickly, hoping they’d have something of value within them. 

“You know, I really don’t like that.”

Of course there’s nothing there, it’s just nonsense about… the weather, desserts, some sci fi novel he had read. The title’s actually a little familiar; Stan tries to think of where he had seen it before.

“Well then.”

Oh, of course, this is that book Ford used to rave about when they were kids. It was his absolute favourite all through elementary school. Stan smiles a little. Odd to think that Ford still loved it after all those years.

Then, he feels a horrifyingly familiar sensation of being ripped away from himself. 

He can see himself this time, watch his own body from beside it. The surrealness of that catches him completely off guard for a few moments, a few moments of absolute shock as he tries to puzzle through what had just happened to him. 

Then, he screams.

“Bill!” he shrieks at the top of his lungs, swinging at his own head with a tight fist. His pale blue, translucent hand passes right through it, and sends him careening off to the side from the momentum. Bill laughs, the slightly distorted voice coming from Stan’s mouth. It makes Stan want to puke.

“Not ignoring me now, are you Stanley?!” he taunts, stretching Stan’s face with a grin that’s way too wide. He stands on slightly wobbly legs, teetering around as he gets used to the new proportions. “Wow, you sure are top heavy! I just cannot get used to your clunker of a body!”

It’s taking everything in Stan’s power not to crumble into panic. As it is, he can feel his chest heaving as his ethereal form tries to take in air. “What are you doing, you demon freak?!”

“What’s it look like? I’m taking you for a proper spin!” Bill stumbles towards the stairs. “You gonna come and see the show?”

Stan’s stomach twists. “Don’t you dare—” 

“Can it, Stanley. I’ve loved watching you drive yourself and Sixer insane, but I think it’s time I quit messing around and get down to business!” Bill starts to drag himself up the stairs on the handrail, gaining more and more competence with the body as he goes. It takes Stan a few moments to figure out how to move in his nonphysical form, but he manages to dash up the stairs after him. He tries to grab at the broad shoulders and stained shirt, but his hands keep passing through uselessly. “Quit wasting your energy, moron, you can’t touch me!” Bill laughs, trying to turn the doorknob. He finds it locked. Stan is relieved for only a moment before Bill shrugs and rips the knob off the door. “You’re pretty strong, aren’t you?!” he snickers, tossing the knob down the stairs behind him. Stan winces with each clunk.

“Bill, whatever you’re doing, I’ll…” Stan starts to say, but his sentence trails off. He has no threat. As far as he can tell, there’s nothing he can do. Bill laughs at him and quickly moves through the shack.

“You’ll what, Stanley? I can’t laugh at your stupid threats if you don’t even make them!” he says, his distorted voice full of sadistic delight. Stan tries again to punch him, with just as little success as the first time. 

They enter the living room, and Stan goes stock still. Ford is asleep on the couch, snoring softly as an Animal Planet special plays. Bill glances back at Stan and winks. He picks up a poker from the little rack beside the fireplace. Stan feels his blood run cold.

“Sixer!” Stan shrieks, somehow even louder than he had before. Ford doesn’t even stir. Stan shouts directly into his ear, “FORD! WAKE UP!” 

“Save your breath, Stanley!” Bill whispers, “No one can hear you. Well, no one but me!” He creeps towards Ford’s sleeping form, tiptoeing, stepping as lightly as possible so no floorboards creak. He raises the poker over his head.

The TV switches from the calm narration to a commercial, a noisy one. Ford blinks awake. The poker swings towards him. He yelps, jumping aside out of instinct. The bag of peas falls to the floor, and a stab of pain shoots up through his hip. The poker had torn through the couch cushion and become lodged inside the furniture’s frame. 

Ford staggers to his feet, putting as much distance between himself and the attacker as possible. His heart pounds rapidly as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. “S-Stanley?!” he gasps, “What the hell is going on?!” 

He already knows. But his heart still drops when he hears the demon’s voice come from his brother.

“What do you think, IQ?” Bill laughs, yanking hard on the poker. It comes free with a small shower of stuffing and the sound of ripping fabric. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten that stupid!”

He already knew. He had known for a while and made the mistake of convincing himself that knowledge was paranoia. He already knew, but he is still overcome with shock and horror.

“What have you done with Stanley?!” Ford shouts, grasping at the rack for a weapon of his own. He manages to get ahold of the cast iron shovel. 

“Don’t play dumb, you know how this works. He’s floating around, making a fool out of himself,” Bill says candidly, twirling the poker in the air like a baton. Ford’s eye flicks from him to the door, picturing the house’s layout and which route would get him out of here fastest.

“What do you want with him, Cipher?!” Ford asks. Keeping him talking seems like the best idea for now. He grips the shovel tightly, and sidles ever so slightly towards the door.

Bill notices. 

Stan cries out again when Bill takes another swing at Ford. It’s like a nightmare, seeing this altercation, being powerless to stop it. 

Ford moves as quickly as he can, barely managing to deflect the blow with his own fireplace tool. Then, he takes off, forcing his leg to bear his weight. The limp is pronounced enough to slow him, and Bill takes another swing at him, laughing.

The poker catches him across the back, slashing through his sweater. Ford yells, then raises his shovel to strike back on instinct. He pauses right before he begins the lash. It may be Bill in control, but the body is Stan’s. 

“What? Don’t wanna hurt ole Stanley too badly?! That’s awful noble of you, Sixer!” Bill laughs, throwing a punch. Ford stumbles back, his brother’s fist whiffing the air directly in front of his nose. 

“Get out of his head!” Ford shouts, moving backwards with the shovel held at the ready. He feels a wall against his back. He tears his gaze away from Bill for a moment to see how close to the door he is. He looks back and sees the poker swinging towards him again. He dives to the side.

“Hold still, will you?! How am I supposed to kill you if you keep moving?!” Bill gripes. The poker is lodged in the wall. Ford scrambles back up to his feet and yanks open the door, running into the hall. 

A heavy form hits him from behind, tackling him to the ground. He yells. His arm barely manages to catch a doorknob as he goes down, yanking hard on his shoulder and sending even more pain through him. 

Stan’s face is right above his, cleaved in half by a smile so wide that it looks like a grimace. The yellow eyes bore right through Ford, filling him with a dread so thick it feels like concrete in his stomach. 

“Well well well well well well well well well!” Bill says gleefully. Ford strains his head away, pressing his skull into the floor. “Now what’s ole Six Fingers gonna do?!”

Ford spits in his eye. Bill doesn’t even blink. Ford’s stomach heaves in disgust.

“Weak stomach? Not a worry, pal!” Bill laughs. He sits up, pressing down hard on Ford’s chest to keep him down. He punches him hard in the gut with the other hand. Ford wheezes, the few bites of soup he had eaten earlier coming up. Bill laughs yet again. “Wow, you’ve really gotten soft over this past year! Can’t even take one hit!” 

Thoughts blast through Ford’s mind too quickly for him to make sense of them. The side door is at the end of the hall, painfully close. The car is right outside it. He’s so close to escaping. So close. 

“Get off of me!” Ford tries to yell, but it comes out as a wheeze. His back is wet. The pain from his hip is drowned out by the insistent throbbing in his shoulder. He wonders how much more it would take to finish him off.

“Ooo, or what, Sixer?” Bill says, somehow managing to twist Stan’s face into an even wider smile. He flicks Ford’s nose. “You’re pretty well pinned, I’m not sure why I’d be scared of you!”

Ford remembers the shovel. He had forgotten he was holding it in his panic. It’s still in his hand, he realizes. It likely won’t be long before Bill notices it too. So Ford wastes no time.

The sound of the cast iron hitting Stan’s face is sickening. Ford can feel the impact running through his arm, and it makes him want to vomit again. However, he has no time. As soon as he feels the weight fall away from his torso, he leaps to his feet and makes a mad dash for the door. The shovel clatters loudly to the floor behind him. He doesn’t even limp.

The keys are already in the ignition. Stan had left them there upon their arrival at the shack days ago. Ford is glad he hadn’t bothered to mention it to him. He dives into the front seat and twists them roughly, not bothering with the seat belt. He slams his foot down on the gas, switches from reverse to drive while still in motion, and speeds into the trees, his heart fluttering in his ears. The blood soaking his shirt feels cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What ho everyone, I'm not dead after all! What was it, like, three weeks since last update? Criminal. I would like to apologize to the academy. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and for your patience with these delays. Hopefully this instalment was exciting enough to make the wait worthwhile! ;)


	18. Chapter 18

His mind isn’t working very well right now. 

He keeps trying to summon forth a coherent train of thought. He has a lot to muddle through, after all. But the train cannot get further than a metre or two out of the station before being violently derailed. The culprits are too numerous to identify each time it happens: is it the thick haze of pain radiating from his shoulder, his hip, his back, his stomach? Or is it the all-encroaching and oppressive panic pressing into him from above, from each side, making it feel difficult to breathe? Perhaps it’s the sheer number of thoughts trying to force their way through his frazzled brain at once, getting stuck in the doorway and allowing none through at all?

He shakes his head hard and tightens his grip on the steering wheel. The physical sensation clears his head ever so slightly.

His foot. His foot is very heavy on the gas. The car is moving way too fast. He tries to lift his leg, but it feels like his boot is full of led. It won’t budge. He grimaces. His hold on the wheel is so tight that his knuckles are white. 

His back feels very wet. How much is he bleeding?

A much sharper burst of pain from the wound across his back tells him that he doesn’t really want the answer to that question right now. 

Ford swallows hard. He needs to focus. He needs to think. He needs to figure out what’s going on and what he should do. 

Stan. He wants to know that Stan is alright. 

The unnerving sound of iron against flesh and the vibration running up his arm has him hunching over slightly. He feels sick. 

He bitterly appreciates the fact that Bill made sure he has nothing to throw up now. Vomiting all over the dashboard would not help his situation.

Stan… Stan is almost definitely not alright. A shovel to the face made sure of that, if demonic possession wasn’t certain enough. Ford hunches over closer to the wheel, his chest resting against it now. 

The car is moving too fast. He still can’t seem to lift his foot.

He feels like he is forgetting something. 

The headlights are off; he forces himself to switch them on before he runs into a tree.

Two figures on bikes are coming straight for him.

His lead foot slams down on the breaks, the old car screeching in protest. It spins slightly, pitching Ford sideways and leaving the car sprawled perpendicularly across the road, thankfully still rightside up. Rubber tracks are rubbed into the pavement. He’s splayed across the door. He remembers to breathe again.

“Grunkle Ford!” he hears two voices shout in near unison. The door he had forgotten to lock is flung open and he feels small hands on him, hugging him and checking him for awareness. He winces a little when they come away bloody.

“Children,” he wheezes, urgency thick in his voice. He has too many things he wants to say, all of which are trying to force their way out of his mouth at once. He hears himself ask, “Where did you go?”

“We were in town,” Mabel peeps, her eyes wide as she looks from her blood-covered hands to his pale face. “Grunkle Ford, what’s going on?!”

“I didn’t… I didn’t know you had bikes here,” Ford says. He can barely believe himself. Why is that what’s coming out of his mouth right now?

“Grunkle F-Ford!” Dipper yelps squeakily, “You’re b-bleeding! What happened?!”

Ford blinks. The haze is slowly draining out of his brain, but it isn’t quite gone yet. “Children… Get in the car, quickly…”

“What?!” Mabel protests, “You can’t drive when you’re hurt like that!”

“We have to get somewhere safe, NOW,” Ford insists. Something about his tone seems to startle the kids. They exchange uneasy glances before climbing into the backseat. Ford straightens himself up, yanks his door closed, braces himself, and forces his lead foot to depress the gas to a more reasonable degree.

“W-What’s happening…?” Dipper asks after a few moments of pregnant quiet.

Ford grits his teeth, avoiding their gazes in the rearview mirror. “Bill,” he says simply.

They already know what’s happening. He’s sure of it. All three of them have been skirting around Ford, talking around him, strategically excluding him. It’s because they all already knew. 

The twins gasp. They’re not surprised to hear it, Ford is certain. They just didn’t expect HIM to know. 

“How… How did you find out…?” Mabel asks. Her voice is smaller than Ford has ever heard it. It makes his stomach turn. 

Ford tries to explain it. He formulates the words and plans his tone carefully. But what comes out of his disloyal mouth, in a soft, hurt voice, is, “Why didn’t you tell me…?”

He still doesn’t look up at them, but he’s sure they’re exchanging uncertain glances between each other. Dipper hesitantly offers, “We just… We just wanted to keep you out of it, since you were hurt—” 

Ford doesn’t let him finish, a sudden inferno of bitter anger rushing up from his stomach like bile. He twists around in the driver’s seat, sending a bolt of pain up his back, and shouts, “YOU CAN’T KEEP ME OUT OF THIS! IT’S ME HE’S AFTER!”

The children are stunned by his outburst, and he immediately regrets it. He quickly straightens out, turning his gaze back to the road. The car is silent for a few moments, before he adds in a more controlled and even voice, “He overshadowed Stanley. We fought.”

“So… that’s how you were hurt…?” Mabel manages to ask.

Ford nods quietly. How could he yell at them like that? They’re just kids; this wasn’t their idea. 

“Is Grunkle Stan okay…?” she adds.

Ford pauses, gritting his teeth hard enough to add a dull ache in his jaw to his ever increasing list of pains. Then, he shakes his head. “No, of course not. He has Bill in his head,” he says with as much control as he can muster. 

“She meant ph-physically,” Dipper clarifies, even though everyone knows that Ford understood what she meant. He just doesn’t answer. The car falls silent once again.

“Why were you in town?” Ford asks. When had it gotten dark? How long did he sleep on that couch?

“We… well…” Mabel starts, seemingly trying to choose her words carefully. “We have a plan. A plan to fix… this.”

Ford finally glances up at the rearview mirror. The twins are clutching each other’s hands, both of them looking down at their knees. He hates seeing them like that. “What’s your plan?” he asks, hoping his voice sounds softer. He can’t tell if it does or not.

“The Zodiac,” Mabel says, looking up at him finally. “We didn’t get a chance to use it last time. Maybe… Well, we figured that if we could try again—” 

“No,” Ford says instantly, “It won’t work.”

“What? Why not?” Mabel asks, frowning.

“Bill is in Stanley. Stanley is a part of the Cipher Wheel.”

Mabel’s expression lights up with a familiar optimistic determination. Ford can’t decide if it’s more comforting or disconcerting. “We already figured that part out, Grunkle Ford! We’re going to offer Bill a deal!”

Ford tenses. “You can’t do that.”

“Yes we can! It’ll work, I swear! If we offer to let Bill into our world, he’ll leave Grunkle Stan right away, and—” 

Ford recoils as if he had been burned. “No, absolutely not! You cannot do that! Unleashing Bill is the absolute worst thing you could do! The only reason we’re not dead already is because Bill must be weakened and unable to leave Stanley!”

“No, it’ll WORK! Right, Dipper?!” Mabel cries, turning to Dipper for support. Dipper hesitates.

“I… I don’t know, Mabel…” he says hesitantly, apologetically, “I think that… it might be a bad idea…”

“What?! You said you were on board!”

“Yeah, b-because we didn’t have any other options!”

“What other options are there now?!”

Dipper gestures wildly towards Ford. “He knows n-now! He can help us c-come up with something!”

“Yes, Dipper is right!” Ford says quickly, “We can come up with something safer. Something that will still preserve our universe!”

“What else is there?!” Mabel cries indignantly, yanking her hand out of Dipper’s. “We already spent all that time getting everyone back together, Dipper! We’re almost all the way there! It’s the best thing we can do because we KNOW it’ll WORK!”

“You’ve gathered them all?” Ford asks, unsure if he is mortified or pleased. “Where are they?”

“At Old Man McGucket’s mansion, waiting for us to get you and Grunkle Stan!”

Ford taps his fingers on the steering wheel in a fast, urgent rhythm. “It’s very dangerous to keep them all together. If Bill wants to destroy them—” 

“It’s extra easy, we know! We saw it happen the first time! But you just said a minute ago that Bill is too weak to do anything right now, Grunkle Ford!” Mabel protests.

Ford purses his lips. She’s not wrong, of course, and he can hardly argue against his own word. “Fine. You’re correct. But that could change at any moment as far as we know. I’m not sure what Bill is going to do. I’m not sure how strong he actually is right now. But I do know with absolute CERTAINTY that unleashing him is a terrible idea.”

Mabel narrows her eyes, folding her arms over her chest. But, she falls silent, and as long as Ford doesn’t look back at her, he can consider it his own victory. Dipper hesitantly attempts to break the awkward silence. “S-So… if we aren’t going to use the Z-Zodiac… What are we going to do instead?”

Ford pauses for a moment, then stops the car. As quickly as he can manage, he turns it around, and starts driving back towards the town that he had passed right through during their argument. “You say that everyone on the Cipher Wheel is at Fiddleford’s mansion? Then I suppose that is where we should be as well,” he says.

Dipper frowns. “D-Didn’t you just say that was dangerous though?”

“And then we decided it was probably fine,” Ford reminds him. The cogs in his finally cleared mind are turning fiercely, so fiercely that he can almost forget how much pain he is in. “While I was in the portal, I developed and built a gun with the ability to defeat Bill. It was made of many things that we don’t have access to here, but if anyone can recreate it with what we do have, it’s myself and Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.”

Dipper remembers the gun. It had missed, blown harmlessly through the demon’s hat. Would it actually work if it hit its intended target? He isn’t sure. He isn’t sure if he believes that it will or not. But it’s something, right?

Ford seems so certain, so revitalized by his newly hatched plan. It’s difficult to argue with his expertise. Dipper hesitantly decides to let himself be swept along. If anyone knows how to defeat Bill, it’s his great uncle.

He glances over at his sister. Her gaze is fixed out the window. He considers trying to speak with her, but decides against it. It would only worsen her stubborn irritation. So, he turns his attention back towards Ford, hoping this will work. He really, really hopes that this will work.

Had he kept his attention on her, he might have seen that her silence is more than irritated resignation. That her window-ward stare is more strategic than avoidant, that the cogs in her mind are turning just as rapidly as the ones in Ford’s. Mabel wears the look of someone scheming. Of someone planning to take matters into her own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I think I had something planned to say at the end of this one, but for the life of me I can't remember what it is. Does anyone else get sudden 5am bursts of motivation? They're terribly inconvenient.  
> Thanks so so much for reading, everyone. Keep your eyes peeled, by the way; I've heard through the grapevine that there might be more coming as soon as tomorrow... ;3


	19. Chapter 19

Things seemed to grow hazy for Ford when the mansion came into sight. He remembers clinging to his awareness for long enough to get the car parked, to make sure he’s not at risk of crashing it and hurting his niece and nephew. But as soon as he had pulled the key out of the ignition, he lost everything to an unidentifiable haze. 

He recovers his awareness lying on his side in a very soft bed. He feels cold against his stomach and on the shoulder he isn’t laying on. He feels tightness around his chest and back that makes breathing feel a little odd. His head feels full of cotton. But otherwise, a quick inventory of his body tells him that he’s rather alright. In pain, certainly, but it’s nothing insurmountable. He has, of course, faced much worse than this. 

So he sits up, holding the thick towel filled with ice on his shoulder, keeping it in place. That particular movement seems to unsettle his body a little, and he receives protests from his hip and his back. He dutifully ignores them. Curiously, he lifts the ice from his shoulder and slides his hand under the collar of his sweater, feeling the joint delicately. Swollen, and protesting when he carefully applies pressure to it. He sighs a little. Grabbing for that doorknob when Stan—no, Bill; Stan had nothing to do with that—tackled him had been a terrible move, instinctive or not. He reprimands himself for it and pulls his hand back out of his shirt, returning the ice to its place. Then, he pulls up the hem of his sweater to look at his stomach. The bruising is fairly impressive: the site where Stan’s big fist had landed is a dark burgundy, and the skin around it is a paler grey-ish blue. He doesn’t need to touch anything to know that it will be very tender and sensitive. Very gingerly, he returns his sweater to where it had been and presses the other bag of ice to his stomach with his free hand. 

He dislikes having both of his hands occupied for this. After a moment of thought, he sets both bags aside and unbuckles his belt. He has to straighten his posture to pull it out of the loops of his pants, and his sore stomach protests quietly. With only a little bit of awkward fumbling of the ice, he wraps the belt around his lower back (below the gash) and around the ice on his stomach, fastening it just tightly enough to keep that ice in place. It looks quite silly, but it serves his purpose. His pants have been feeling plenty secure on their own lately anyway, maybe even a little tight. The belt was a matter of habit, not necessity.

He can hear voices outside the door, clustered and enthusiastic with little attempt to remain hushed. The members of the Zodiac, he can only presume. He carefully eases himself to his feet. His hip, unnoticed by whoever trussed him up amidst his much more obvious injuries, protests the weight. He does what he does best and ignores it, making his way to the door and stepping out. 

He is rather stunned by how beautiful the hallway is. The gorgeous hardwood is topped with a red and gold rug that seems to span the entire expanse of the hallway. Matchingly beautiful small tables are evenly spaced along it and topped with statuettes that glint in the light of the elegant lamps. They resemble oil lamps, but their light is too even to be anything other than electrical. Potted ferns occasionally add a splash of green to the warm colours. 

It’s incredibly lovely, but it doesn’t particularly feel like an interior design that Fiddleford would choose. Ford looks back into the room he had just come from. He was too focused on checking over his injuries to pay much mind to its appearance. It seems fairly similar to the hallway, but with the added touch of mounted antlers hanging on the wall. This only worsens Ford’s confusion: as southern hick as Fiddleford might be, he was more hippy than hunter. It’s difficult to imagine his old friend living here.

The chatter down the hall swells in volume for a moment, pulling Ford’s mind off the decor. He shuts the door to the room and indulges in slow, deliberate limping, marvelling in how plush and pleasant the carpet feels under his socks. Hm, someone removed his boots. He hadn’t noticed before. He’s rather surprised by just how vulnerable it makes him feel; he has worn shoes near constantly for quite some time. 

As the sounds of voices grows louder, he focuses his energy on lessening the visibility of his limp. It feels more difficult now than it had been, which isn’t too surprising. It is irritating though. He grits his teeth in frustration with himself, then taps on a large, ornate door, through which the voices are coming. They all quiet at once, then someone hurries to the door. 

It’s Dipper who opens it. “Great Uncle Ford!” he says, a smile spreading across his face, “You’re up!”

“Yes, I am,” Ford nods, smiling back at his nephew. “Was I asleep for long?” Ford peers over Dipper’s head to get a look at everyone. He recognizes them from the previous attempt at carrying out the prophecy, but he doesn’t remember most of their names.

“All night!” proclaims Soos, who has also gotten up and come over to the doorway. “Dipper was wanting to go wake you up, but we told him that you needed the sleep, Dr Pines.”

“Thank you, Soos, I do feel quite a bit more rested,” Ford says. He doesn’t add that Dipper was probably right, that he should’ve been awake and working on a plan already.

Dipper seems to guess where his thoughts had gone. “We were talking about what you said before. You know, about the gun?” he says.

“Come now, don’t just stand there in the doorway!” Fiddleford says, grinning widely at Ford. “You gotta come get settled before we can talk about any plans.”

Dipper steps out of the way, allowing Ford to step into the room. Soos offers him a hand, which he hesitates before taking. Soos leads him over to where the rest of the group is seated, directing him towards a cushy armchair occupied by a grumpy looking teen boy with dark hair. The guy vacates it.

“I can sit on the floor,” Ford offers, gesturing to where a number of the group are seated on blankets and pillows. 

“Nah, it’s cool,” the kid shrugs, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He’s the heart symbol; it’s stitched messily onto the front of the jacket. “You take it.” He plops down beside the red haired girl, Wendy. Ford is fairly sure it’s Wendy, anyway; on second thought, it might be Winnie. She’s the bag of ice, he does remember that.

Ford carefully sits down, leaning forward far enough to keep his back from touching the chair and without pressing the towel of ice belted to his stomach too hard into the bruising. He looks around. This is the most Fiddleford place in the house he’s seen so far. He supposes it was once a grand sitting room of some sort, but any fancy furniture has been replaced with stuff that feels more appropriate for a cabin than a grand hunting lodge or whatever it is this mansion is going for. A few patches are scattered across the fabrics of the chair and couch, all of which clash horribly against the original colours. Spread out on the floor is a quilted blanket and a number of throw pillows, some of which look (sloppily) handmade and the others like they were extremely expensive. The expensive looking ones have some patches of vividly clashing colours stitched onto them; Ford wonders if the patches were necessary additions or if they were Fiddleford trying to make the cushions look less fancy. 

Seated in a circle around the blanket are the members of the Zodiac. On the couch are the poofy haired little kid—the star with the eye in it—and a girl with long, blond hair, who doesn’t seem very comfortable at all. She was the llama, and also a nuisance. On the floor next to her is Wendy (Winnie?), the girl Dipper apparently had quite a crush on. A quick glance to Dipper, whose eye is notably fixed on her, tells Ford that said crush is probably still just as potent as it was. Beside her is the guy who left the chair a moment ago, then Fiddleford, who has picked up his banjo. He strums on it, filling the room with cheerful music. Dipper and Soos, who have sat down beside the chair, both smile.

“Your music is very cool, Mr McGucket,” Soos says pleasantly. Wendy or Winnie nods in agreement.

“Yeah, I didn’t know I liked banjos at all,” she says.

“The banjo is the most cheerful instrument you can play,” Fiddleford says, grinning. 

It occurs to Ford that Mabel isn’t sitting with the rest of the group. He assumes she’s off stewing somewhere; she had seemed in a very poor mood after their argument in the car.

“So are you feeling alright, Dr Pines?” Wendy (he has decided to go with Wendy) asks. 

“You looked pretty terrible yesterday,” the llama girl comments with a tone of disinterest. 

Ford nods. “Yes, I’m alright. And while I agree that the banjo is quite lovely, I think we should be focusing on how to take down Bill.”

“No reason we can’t do both!” Fiddleford says, strumming away.

The poofy-haired kid (Lil Gideon, he thinks. Stan talked about him now and then, described how he caused lots of trouble for the Mystery Shack and the kids, particularly Mabel; he liked to call the kid “a talking baby” when he wasn’t just saying his name derisively) rolls his eyes and says in a strange southern accent, “Dipper said something about a gun? Some gun that can shoot Bill?” He shakes his head. “Look, they say you know more about it than anyone, but I doubt any gun could hurt that thing.” Something about the way he talks about Bill bothers Ford. It’s rather… familiar.

“You’re right, most guns wouldn’t stand a chance,” Ford agrees. “However, the gun I made was constructed from materials found in other dimensions. It blew a hole right through him when I tested it.”

“Stuff from other dimensions?” the dark haired kid questions. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means stuff from other dimensions, Robbie,” Wendy says, rolling her eyes. “I thought that was pretty self explanatory.”

“Whatever,” Robbie huffs, shoving his hands even further into his pockets somehow.

“Do you have any more of whatever you’re talking about?” llama girl asks. 

Ford hesitates. “Well, no, I don’t.”

“Where is the gun you already made, Dr Pines?” Soos asks.

“Bill destroyed it,” Ford admits.

“Wait, wait, hold on a second,” Gideon says, frowning. The talking baby thing seems fairly fitting; his voice is very odd. “You said it blew a hole clean through Bill. But that didn’t kill him. What’s the point of making something we already know won’t do any good?”

“I hit his hat,” Ford explains quickly, “It would be like getting shot in the arm. That wouldn’t kill you.”

“His hat didn’t have a hole in it,” llama girl points out. 

“It regenerated,” Dipper says, grimacing. “It was… kinda really creepy to watch.”

“It regenerated?! That means your gun didn’t hurt him at all!” Gideon cries. 

“Why aren’t we just doing the circle thing again?” Robbie asks, “I thought that’s why we’re all here anyway.”

“We told you before, dude, Dr Pines thinks it’ll be too dangerous to get Bill out of Mr Pines,” Soos says. He looks up at Ford. “Mr Pines isn’t in too much trouble, is he? He’ll be okay, right?”

Ford taps his fingers on his thigh. “Being possessed by Bill shouldn’t do any lasting damage. If we can defeat Bill, then he should be alright.” The sound of iron against flesh bounces around his skull.

“How are we supposed to shoot the thing if it’s in someone’s head?” llama girl asks. 

“We’ll have to get Bill to come out eventually, yes,” Ford says, “But it’ll be much safer if we’re able to shoot him immediately after. The Zodiac plan as you described it makes it too easy for Bill to interfere before we can do anything.”

“Hey, Dr Pines,” Wendy says, her brow furrowed, “I believe you that the Zodiac idea is more dangerous, but you said your gun was made of stuff from some other dimension. How are we supposed to make something like that?”

“Well…” Ford says, looking from her to Fiddleford. “In all my years of research, I’ve never met someone more skilled with electronics than you, Fiddleford. I figured that if we worked together, we might be able to recreate something similar to what I made before.”

Fiddleford finally pauses in his strumming, then sets down his banjo. His brow is furrowed over his pair of tinted goggles. “I dunno, Stanford,” he says, his voice far more serious than it has been up until now. “Tampering with that kinda thing, messing around like that... It's not something I’m willing to do. The wheel is one thing, but you want us to make something that isn't supposed to exist in our dimension."

“It won’t be like before,” Ford promises, trying to keep the begging tone from slipping into his voice. “Please. It’s the safest option we have.”

Fiddleford is quiet, rubbing his chin over his beard. Ford can feel the group’s eyes flicking from him to his old friend. Everyone is silent, the only noise in the room coming from the popping of the fire in the hearth nearby. 

A loud ding from the room next door makes everyone jump.

“Lunch is ready!” Fiddleford declares, jumping up onto his bare feet, his grin back on his face. He hurries past the group, his steps jaunty, as if he’s hopping from foot to foot. An awkward silence settles over everyone, as they all avoid looking at Ford. Fiddleford mercifully doesn’t keep them waiting for long, however; he’s back in only a few moments with a steaming pot in one hand and a stack of bowls in the other. He plops the pot down in the centre of the blanket and starts doling out bowls of baked beans. A series of grimaces flash across the faces of a number of the Zodiac. 

“Beans? The world isn’t even ending this time, why are we just eating beans?” the llama girl asks, taking hers with all the revulsion of someone being offered a bowl of rotten eggs.

“They’re easy and tasty!” Fiddleford declares, his doofy cheerfulness back in full swing. 

“Thanks for cooking, dude,” Soos says, smiling.

“Why didn’t we order a pizza or something?” Robbie grumbles, “It’s not like anywhere’s closed.”

“Robbie, shut up,” Wendy says, elbowing him in the ribs. 

“Fiddleford,” Ford says, “Thank you for the food. But can we please not change the subject? The longer we wait…” He pauses, then sighs. “The longer we wait, the longer my brother is stuck alone with Bill in his head.”

Fiddleford sighs as well and clutches his spoon. “You sure it’ll work?” he asks after a long pause.

“I believe that it’s our best bet,” Ford says earnestly. He twirls his spoon between his fingers, trying to meet Fiddleford’s gaze. The mechanic’s eye is fixed firmly down at his bowl.

“Alright,” Fiddleford says after a painfully long moment of quiet, finally looking up. He smiles at Ford. “I’ll trust you.”

Ford flushes, stunned by the remark. He stammers for an embarrassing moment, then shuts his mouth and gathers himself. “Thank you. We should get started right after we’re done eating.”

“Do you have a plan?” Fiddleford asks. Then, he laughs. “Oh what am I saying, you’re Stanford Pines. You never have a plan.”

Ford flushes more intensely. “For your information, I do have a plan!” he protests angrily, “We build the gun, track down Bill, and blast him!”

Fiddleford rolls his eyes. “I meant a plan to build this thing.”

“Oh.” Ford huffs. He doesn’t have a plan for that. A few of the kids snicker. 

“Stanford Pines, I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” says Gideon gravely. He seems far more solemn than most of the others. It sends a chill down Ford’s spine.

“I do,” Ford says. _I hope so too,_ he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVERYONE LOOK IT UPDATED AGAIN ALREADY!!  
> This one and the last chapter were another pair of establishing ones, pointing us in our new direction. I sure do wonder what's ahead on this path? I'm sure it'll be loads of fun.  
> As always, thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. Your positive feedback makes me so happy. <3
> 
> Edit: added a little bit to one of the bits of dialogue.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a very brief hint in the last segment that alluded to this. The opening line here calls back to it.

Mabel had never been one to stew.

She’s a go getter, a fighter, a girl of action. A girl who knows what’s right. A girl who isn’t about to sit by and do nothing while her family makes a grave mistake. 

It’s not that she doesn’t trust Ford. She knows that he’s an extremely intelligent man who knows a lot more about Bill than she does. She knows that this plan of his is coming from a place of wisdom, and that he is extremely hesitant to put anyone in danger. But he’s biased. He isn’t thinking clearly. He’s too afraid of his past mistakes to do what really needs to be done. And while his caution is understandable and maybe even smart, it’s going to get her Grunkle Stan seriously hurt, or worse. She needs to take control of this situation and get things moving in a better direction. A direction that will work.

At least, that’s what she tells herself as she sneaks out of Fiddleford’s mansion.

It turns out that such a thing isn’t really all that difficult. The house is massive, way too big for a bachelor like him, even when he is hosting a slew of guests. In fact, most of the rooms and hallways she passes through on her search for the back door look dusty and untouched, the fancy furnishings still in place and the air stale. It seems like Fiddleford had redecorated a handful of rooms and just left the rest of the house alone, electing to ignore it rather than refurnish the entire manor. It’s reasonable, she must admit: there’s no way he could make use of all this space on his own anyway. 

The hardest part of sneaking out isn’t avoiding capture so much as FINDING the door. She passes through the same bedroom three times and what appears to be an auxillary kitchen twice before she finally stumbles out into the vast backyard. Its gardens, once meticulously maintained, are running wild; the hedges are mishapen, the grass is long, and creeping vines and clematises are overtaking the statues of cherubs peppered through the landscape. She pauses to admire it. The sight of nature reclaiming the land is rather beautiful. 

She spots a large shed tucked against the side of the house. At first glance, it blends in to the cream siding and elegant exterior perfectly; she assumes that’s how she didn’t spot it right away. Thankfully, it’s unlocked. She half expects it to smell of stale perfume like the rest of the ignored manor, but the air is just like that in any other shed she’s ever encountered: thick with lawnmower oil and the scent of cut grass. She holds her breath at first, finding that odor difficult to adjust to. 

Unsurprisingly, the shed is huge, and teaming with expensive lawncare equipment. Also inside are some toys: bags of tennis and badminton rackets, a polo set, a bag of bocci balls, and even a box of “lawn darts”. She’s never heard of lawn darts, but it sounds like a game that, if the Pines were to play it, would end with Dipper needing a trip to the hospital for a tetanus shot. 

Behind the second ride-on lawnmower, she finds what she was looking for: a bicycle. Dipper's and her bikes had been left on the side of the road somewhere between the Northwest/McGucket Mansion and the Mystery Shack, and walking all the way home would take far too long. Although the priority for such a stipulation is low, she had hoped to find a pink one with streamers and rainbow beads on the wheels’ spokes. The one she manages to dig up is a glossy purple with pink lettering. Close enough.

She leaves the shed door ajar and wheels the bike all the way around the property to the front drive, climbs on top of it, and sets off, pedalling as fast as her legs will allow.

The downward slope of the hill she speeds down has her going so quickly that she doesn’t even need to pedal. Despite the seriousness of her mission, the wind in her hair and on her face has her grinning and giggling. She leans forward towards the handlebars, picking up even more speed. She feels like she’s flying.

The built up momentum keeps her careening down the road for a good ways after the land had levelled out, and as soon as it becomes possible, she returns to working her legs, trying to keep up that speed. She zooms through town, flashing metallic grins at anyone who waves. She would normally prefer to wave back, but she feels like taking a hand off the bike might get her into trouble. Crashing would just slow her down too much.

She’s already waited too long. She needs to get there as fast as she can.

If the world were ideal, she would have slipped out and headed back to the shack as soon as they got to the manor. Unfortunately for her, the crowd she and Dipper had herded to the mansion made going undetected difficult. Additionally, she wanted to make sure that Ford was taken care of before she ran off anywhere. With the combined efforts of herself, Dipper, Wendy, Soos, and even Gideon, they got the injured man fixed up and in bed. After that, Dipper was stuck to her side all the way through preliminary talks about what had happened, what was going on, and what they could do. Mabel exercised more self control than she knew she had and contributed almost nothing to the discussion, keeping up her irritated expression in the hopes that it would keep them from engaging with her. After a natural lull in the conversation finally occurred, she attempted to separate, but Dipper followed, forcing her to actually go to bed as she had said she would. When morning came around, she pretended to sleep in, and whether Dipper fell for it or not, he left her alone. 

She makes a mental note to apologize to everyone for giving them all such a cold shoulder last night. It was just what she had to do.

Most of the speed she had gained from the hill has worn off by now, and pedalling so hard is starting to make her legs ache. She hasn’t been in this big of a rush since sometime last summer; school just doesn’t have as high stakes as the events of Gravity Falls did, and she appears to be out of practice in racing across a town at breakneck speeds.

She’s thankful that the road into the woods isn’t as bumpy as Gopher Road. Crashing the bike would really slow her down too much.

She sees a wide arc of black imprinted onto the road. Tire tracks from last night. The abandoned bikes are off to the side of the road nearby. She wants to hop off the borrowed bike and reclaim her own, but she’s already going fast and really can’t afford to waste time right now. Hopefully they’ll still be there at the end of this.

She figures it’ll be another ten or fifteen minutes or so until she reaches the shack. Maybe even less if she can get her bike to go faster. Her legs insist that terminal velocity has been reached. She pedals harder anyway.

This is going to work. She knows it will.

 

 

It’s approaching evening now; the sun has begun its gradual creep down from the highest point in the sky. The trees’ shadows are returning, creeping across the grass and towards the Mystery Shack. The ones without leaves look like spindly hands on thin, black arms, reaching out to grab the triangular hut. Bill thinks it’s just hilarious to watch.

Stan had given up on fighting the demon in his body at some time around midnight last night. Once his nose had stopped gushing blood and Ford was likely far, far away, it felt pretty pointless to keep grabbing futilely at his own broad shoulders and watch his hands pass right through. He has never felt so worthless.

“So when do you think he’ll be back, Stanley?” Bill asks cheerfully as he stares at the shadows on the grass. They’re still a good ten metres away.

“Fuck off,” Stan replies. He has also figured out by now that actually responding to Bill’s questions is fairly pointless. Most of those questions are just springboards for him to ramble about his own answer, regardless of what Stan says.

“I figure we’ve got somewhere between another six to ten hours. Ole IQ always worked better in the middle of the night.” He pops Stan’s knuckles one by one; he’d discovered the trick by mistake and has been cracking every joint he can since. “He never really was like the rest of you meat sacks, was he? Glasses used to give him a hard time about ‘sleeping’ or something. Talk about a major buzzkill.” 

Stan wobbily pilots his ethereal form to the couch on the front porch and sinks into it. To his surprise and annoyance, “into it” comes to mean “inside of it” rather than “atop it”. He stays there anyway. 

“What’re you doing over there, Stanley?! Aw, giving up already?!” Bill asks for the fourth time. Stan grumbles under his breath. There’s no point in retorting; he was never all that good with words, even when they did mean something. “Aren’t you gonna try punching me again?”

Stan ignores him. He isn’t entirely sure what the best way out of this scenario is; he’s been trying to think of one for quite some time now and can’t seem to come up with anything. There was absolutely no information on exorcising demons anywhere in Ford’s lab, and try as he might, he can’t remember Ford ever talking about something of that nature. Discussion of Bill was incredibly limited, so it’s not particularly surprising. 

This isn’t what he’s good at. If punching his way out of a problem didn’t work, the problem wouldn’t get solved. The only exception to that rule was reopening the portal, and it took him thirty long, agonizing years to pull that off. He doesn’t have thirty years this time; by the sound of it, he has six to ten hours. So really, there’s no point at all. He can’t fix this. All he can do is hope that Bill makes a terrible mistake or that Ford can pull some sort of miracle out of nowhere. 

Bill groans. “This is a lot less fun when none of you idiots are trying to stop me. A guy can only look at shadows for so long, Stanley!” He looks over to the couch and snorts. “You look pathetic.”

Stan grits his teeth. He remembers driving his fist into that giant eyeball. He wonders how it might feel to do it again. 

“So you’re just going to sit inside of a couch and sulk, are you?” Bill tsks, shaking his head. Stan can’t get used to watching his body act on its own, but he can’t look away either; catching Bill in his peripheral vision makes it look just a bit too much like Ford. The uncomfortable, slimey feeling of someone else piloting him is better than the split second of panic that says Bill somehow got his awful little hands on his brother.

Stan shrugs.

“I’m getting sick of this, Stanley,” Bill huffs, taking a few long strides towards the porch. He looms overhead, and Stan can’t remember himself being this tall and imposing. The yellow of his irises glow delicately. The black slit of Bill’s pupil is paper thin. His voice is thick with threatening venom. “Maybe waiting for Sixer to turn up here is a bad idea. Maybe we should be taking a walk into town so we can figure out where he ran off to.” Bill nudges Stan’s incorporeal foot with his identical toe. Stan shudders, glaring coldly up at himself. Bill grins back down, unblinking. 

He suddenly lifts his head. Stan looks around slowly, trying to figure out what had grabbed Bill’s attention. He doesn’t see anything. 

Then, he hears the sound of bike tires on gravel.

Bill’s grin widens. “Maybe we won’t have to go anywhere after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to make this one double-length and include the part that eases this cliffhanger, but my beta said I shouldn't. Sorry about that. Thank you so very much for reading! If my plan works out, then the next piece should be out pretty soon.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the new tag. It's not a super long scene, but I wouldn't want anyone getting too uncomfortable. Content warning for Bill being a poophead.

The loose rocks scattered along the dirt of Gopher Road crunches slightly under Mabel’s feet as she hops off her borrowed bike. She leans it against the trunk of a tree by the road and dusts the fine layer of pollen off her sweater. It flutters through the air in a little puff of powder, and she spends a moment or two focusing on that. Then, she takes a deep breath to steel herself and sharpen her nerves.

She coughs on the pollen she had just scattered. After her short coughing and sneezing fit passes, she can’t help but snicker at her own silly mistake. 

Someone else laughs too.

Her head snaps up and her gaze immediately fixes on her Grunkle Stan, her eyes filled with a fiery determination. It crumbles instantly as she takes in the sight of him.

The off-white undershirt he had been wearing yesterday (had it really been yesterday? It already feels so long ago) is absolutely covered in blood. The stains are so extensive that most of it looks black instead of red, and the contrast against the rest of the fabric is incredibly unsettling. It’s hard to look at anything else. Mabel isn’t sure she WANTS to look anywhere else. 

She manages to tear her eyes off the shirt and notices that his knobby knees are trembling. His feet are bare and also splattered with blood, as are his calves and shins, as if he had been jumping and splashing about in puddles of the stuff. Her stomach twists. She doesn’t want to look above his torso. She doesn’t want to know where this blood came from. 

She looks up anyway, and her heart skips a beat.

The man’s face is smeared with dried blood, as if he had tried to wipe it away but didn’t bother to keep up with the task. Most of it is settled around his nose and mouth, where the coagulated fluid is dark burgundy in its thickness. A few more smears of blood in smaller amounts comes from an oddly straight gash stretching diagonally across his cheek. It looks like the line was deliberately drawn with a ruler. His nose is crooked and swollen, very badly broken; that must be where most of the blood had come from. His eyes are yellow. No, only one of them is. The other is red. Dark red, almost black, as if someone had attempted to block it out of a photograph with a marker. It’s droopy and narrowed in an unsettling way, a way Mabel has never seen before. The skin around his eye is mottled with deep purple bruising, and his cheek is swollen about as much as his nose. 

The few seconds it had taken her to absorb her grunkle’s appearance feel more akin to five minutes. She feels sick. She feels cold. She jumps when a distorted voice breaks forth from her grunkle’s bloody lips.

“Oh, Shooting Star! How nice of you to pay Stanley and I a visit!” Bill says with a wide grin. He’s missing two teeth. 

Mabel swallows hard and straightens her back, reaching for the determination that had dissipated at the sight of Stan’s condition. She can’t find it, so she injects some pretend stuff into her voice and says firmly, “Bill, get out of Grunkle Stan’s head.”

Bill rolls his eyes—no, Stan’s eyes (no, Stan’s EYE, the one that isn’t black and almost completely swollen closed)—and folds his arms over the dark stains painting his chest. “Oh, well, since you asked so politely…” Then he laughs. “Oh who am I kidding, I’m not even going to PRETEND to humour that one. How much of an idiot ARE you?!” He steps towards her. She expects him to stagger or limp or maybe even fall over with how much his knees are shaking (and how pale his skin is, he’s so pale, how much blood has he lost?), but nothing of the sort happens. 

Mabel curls her hands into fists. Of course she didn’t think that would work; it just seemed right to start there. 

“Where is Grunkle Stan?” she asks.

Bill gestures vaguely. “Around here somewhere. What is it to you?”

Mabel tears her eyes off Bill and takes a guess, looking to his left. “Grunkle Stan,” she says firmly, her stubborn determination slowly returning, “I’m going to fix this.”

As it happens, she had guessed completely correctly.

Stan had gotten up from the couch immediately upon hearing the tires of the bike. His ethereal mind had shot through several possibilities for who the visitor could be: not Ford, his leg would never let him ride a bike (even if his new injuries didn’t get in the way. Which they surely would’ve); likely not Soos, who may not even have a bike; possibly Wendy, although coming back here probably wouldn’t have been her instinct; maybe Dipper, but he had always preferred to tag after Ford. It didn’t take very long at all for Stan to know exactly who it was. He had hurried over to where Bill stood. When Mabel finally stepped into the clearing housing the shack, he had stepped in front of him and tried to yell at her. Of course, she couldn’t hear. 

A chill runs down his ethereal spine at being addressed directly by her. How had she managed to guess where he was? What is she doing here?

“Mabel, Sweetie, please,” he says back, even though she can’t hear it. Bill’s grin twitches wider. It infuriates Stan. “You have to get out of here!”

“Fix this, you say?” Bill asks, clasping his hands behind his stolen back. “How do you intend to do that, Shooting Star? You got any extra skulls laying around?”

Mabel winces, and Stan grimaces. He had been immensely grateful to be out of his body when that shovel made contact with his face. The sound… it had been downright sickening, bad enough from an outside perspective. It suddenly occurs to him that the rather gruesome injury is probably not something Mabel should be looking at, but it’s far too late to fix that issue. He supposes it’s a good thing the kid has a strong stomach. 

“What… what happened, anyway?” Mabel questions hesitantly, as if she’s only halfway sure that she should ask. She’s speaking much more slowly than she usually does. Is she buying time?

“Didn’t Sixer tell you?” Bill croons, looking delighted. “He was waving a shovel around like a madman, caught Stanley here in the face with it!”

“No, no, it wasn’t like that!” Stanley protests pointlessly, frustration boiling in his chest. 

There wasn’t much need for his defence of his brother’s honour, however. Mabel shakes her head and says, “I don’t believe you, Bill! Grunkle Ford would never do that!” Stan is flooded with relief, a relief which is very short lived. 

Bill shrugs. “I suppose I did leave out a detail here and there! Like the part where I had him pinned to the ground. And was punching him in the gut. He puked everywhere. It was gross. You meat sacks are gross, you know. So full of… of fluids, all of these weird, smelly fluids!” The demon wipes roughly at the blood caked on his skin.

Mabel winces again, then takes a step towards Bill, anger plain on her face. “Haven’t you done enough?! Just get out of here and leave us alone!”

Bill looks surprised for a moment before breaking down into hysterical laughter. Stan grits his intangible teeth and curls his ethereal hands into fists, trembling all over with rage. He remembers driving a fist into that stupid demon’s eyeball. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Oh come ON now, Shooting Star. I know you’re one of the stupid ones in your family, but this is getting ridiculous!” he taunts.

“Don’t call her that!” Stan screams at him. Bill doesn’t react to it at all.

“You know I’m not just going to leave,” Bill continues, “I’ve been working on this damn body for far too long.” He pauses for a moment, then takes another few steps towards her before stopping again. “Do you know how long?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mabel says, but a little flash of doubt passes over her face. Stan’s anger is replaced with a hesitant confusion. With dread.

“Ever since you idiots first told him about me,” Bill chirps, placing Stan’s big hands on his narrow hips. “Who was it who did that? Oh right, it was you, wasn’t it, Shooting Star? Didn’t want to leave anything out, did ya? I bet Sixer and Pine Tree never would’ve mentioned me, and then maybe I wouldn’t be here! So I guess I owe you a thanks!” He bows extravagantly. “Thanks, Shooting Star!”

Stan wants to rip this wretched demon apart brick by brick. 

Mabel takes one step back from Bill, looking stricken. Then, she takes two steps forward, plastering a brave expression back on her face. “Why should I listen to anything you say? You’re probably just making all that up!” Mabel grins a little and crosses her arms. “You don’t scare me, you know.”

Should he be immensely proud or absolutely mortified? Stan can’t decide. He does enjoy the surprised expression on Bill’s face (his face, he supposes), but the dark cloud that quickly replaces it makes him feel as if the world just got twenty degrees colder.

“I don’t? Oh, no!” Bill cries, tossing a hand over his forehead in mock horror. “Do you think I don’t remember you shaking in my fist? You’re nothing to me, like an ant to a god. I could obliterate you with a snap of my fingers!”

“Big talk for a demon who loses to tickles!”

Stan instinctively hops between Mabel and Bill when he sees her moving forward, but it’s no good. She passes right through him and reaches to pepper his torso with featherlight touches, but Bill moves too quickly. He drives a stolen fist into her cheek, and she falls to the ground with a yelp. 

“You piece of shit!” Stan screams, dropping down beside her and attempting to help her back up uselessly. “Don’t touch her!”

“Didn’t you know? Stanley’s not ticklish,” Bill says darkly. Stan imagines that, if the situation were different, hearing that sentence presented as a threat would make him laugh harder than anything else ever had before in his life. As it is, it makes him want to melt into a puddle on the ground. 

Mabel gingerly touches her cheek, then gets back to her feet, spitting out a mouthful of bloody saliva. Stan’s heart leaps. She wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “I want to make a deal,” she says, and everything goes still.

Bill stares at her. Then, he starts to laugh. He laughs and laughs and laughs until he’s wiping tears from Stan’s intact eye and hiccuping. Mabel watches with a measured expression. 

“What?” Stan whispers.

“You? You want to make a deal with me?” Bill asks, in disbelief. “You know, Shooting Star, I’m usually the one offering deals.” He shakes his head. “Besides, you’re the last one who should be messing around with me. Pine Tree was gullible and clueless, Sixer was even worse than Pine Tree, but you… You’re the worst of them all!” He cackles again.

Mabel twitches very slightly at the insult, but otherwise shows no sign of wavering. “I want to make a deal, Bill,” she repeats, “And I think you’re gonna want to take it.”

“Mabel, sweetie, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stan whispers again, his eyes wide and flicking between her and Bill. 

Bill snorts. “Fine, I’ll bite. What’s your offer, Shooting Star?”

“You leave Grunkle Stan’s head,” she says.

“You know, the thing about deals is that there’s gotta be something in it for me, too—” Bill starts, but Mabel cuts him off.

“You leave Grunkle Stan’s head, and I’ll let you back into our world,” Mabel finishes.

“Kid, what are you DOING?!” Stan shrieks. 

Bill eyes her. “Do you even know how to do that?” he asks, his tone calculating. 

“You just need to be invited, don’t you?” she asks, shifting her folded arms slightly so she can grip her own sweater sleeves. “Like, someone has to summon you?”

“Mabel!” Stan yells, trying desperately to grasp her shoulders, only to watch his hands pass through uselessly again and again. “Mabel, stop! Get out of here now!”

Bill snickers at Stan, then, after a little pause, smiles down at Mabel. “Hm. Shooting Star, I’ve gotta say, this deal sounds like a great gig for me. But see, I’m really wondering… what’s the point for you? You want this idiot back that badly?” he asks, gesturing towards his stolen body.

“Don’t talk about Grunkle Stan like that!” Mabel snaps, “And yes! Anything to get you out of him is worth it!”

“Kid! Kid, this is… this is… kid, come ON!” Stan begs. She can’t hear him, but he can’t give up on trying to sway her anyway. It’s all he’s got to offer. “You can’t do this because of ME!”

Bill eyes her, still grinning. His facial expressions are extremely unsettling to look at. Stan, despite his incredible panic, tells himself that he never wants to see himself smile like that ever again. 

“Come with me,” Bill says simply. He turns on his heel and walks directly into the trees. Mabel quickly hurries after him, and the mortified ghost form of her great uncle is right on her tail.

 

 

Stan’s shouts have died down to softer begging, but he doesn’t give up. “Mabel, Mabel please, if you can hear me at all, you have to turn back now,” he pleads, speaking noiselessly into her ear, “You can’t do this. You can’t do this because of me. Please, Mabel, sweetie, I’m not worth this. Just leave, please. Mabel, it’s okay, I don’t care if he’s stuck in my body forever, just leave now. Don’t let him do this. Why are you doing this? Why are you letting him do this?”

She occasionally glances over her shoulder, from side to side, as if hoping to spot something. Stan assumes it’s him that she’s looking for. Is there something he can do to get through to her? What did Dipper say he did? Possess a puppet of himself? There aren’t any puppet versions of Stan’s mug laying around the woods, so that doesn’t do him any good. There isn’t exactly time for him to experiment with unmarked socks either. He tries plunging his hand into leaves or bushes, but nothing seems to work. It’s useless. And his endless stream of unheard, ignored begs doesn’t cease. 

How far into the woods is Bill taking them? How long have they been walking? It feels like an eternity, but if there’s one thing Stan knows, it’s that time slows down a lot during panic. Maybe only a minute or two has passed. Who knows. It doesn’t really matter.

They enter a tiny clearing, barely more than a few square feet of space. Nestled into the brush, stained and chipped by a year of exposure to the elements, is a statue of Bill’s triangular form. Mabel shivers at the sight of it. Bill stops in front of it, reaches out to touch it, pulls his hand back before his stolen fingertips can brush against the stone. Then, he looks back at Mabel. She looks from the statue up at him.

“B-Bill…” she says, her mask of courage rattled every so slightly. “About the deal.”

Stan goes stock still. A little flicker of hope licks at his heart. Is she going to change her mind, finally? Is she going to stop this nonsense and get out of here? Maybe the sight of the statue reminded her of what a terrible mistake this will be. 

Bill smiles his gaping, unnatural smile, and thrusts his hand towards her. “We shake on it here, and you and this idiot can be on your way.”

“I want to add something to my side,” she says. 

Stan feels like he has been plunged into a vat of ice. 

Bill’s smile never falters, but the black slit of his pupil in the unbroken eye gets thinner. “What are you talking about, Shooting Star?”

Mabel takes a breath, composing herself. “When I let you back into our world… You can’t hurt any of us.”

“Mabel,” Stan says, keeping his eyes fixed on Bill. “Mabel, stop. Now. Please.”

Bill doesn’t answer. He just stares at her with his unblinking eye and his disturbing, hollow grin. Silence falls over all three of them as they wait for something to happen. 

Mabel and Stan both jump when Bill chuckles softly. It’s a small sound, very quiet and unimposing. But it doesn’t stop; it just drags on and on, growing slowly, steadily, torturously louder, sending chills down both their spines. Bill suddenly closes the distance between himself and Mabel with a fast motion, shoving her down to the forest floor. She grunts, and Stan jumps towards her out of protective instinct.

“That’s not how this works, Shooting Star,” Bill says, his voice thick with menace. “You don’t get to change the terms at the last second.”

“Sure you can!” Mabel protests, glaring up at him, “And I just did!” She thrusts her hand at him in an offer to shake. He recoils from it as if she were offering him something coated in acid. 

“No. That’s not what’s going to happen.” Bill looms over her. Stan is so much taller and larger than her, he realizes, and it makes him feel sick. This has to stop, this has to stop now.

“Bill, please, leave her alone,” Stan says, “I know you can hear me. Please just leave her alone. I’ll make some new deal after I’ve got my body back and let you do what you want. Just… Just…” _Don’t use my body to hurt her,_ he doesn’t say.

Bill doesn’t so much as spare him a moment’s glance, his eye never leaving Mabel. He raises one of Stan’s big feet and presses it to her leg, applying just enough pressure to keep her in place. “I don’t really appreciate being CHEATED,” he says, his tone unsettlingly casual, “I was offered access to your boring dimension in return for getting out of Stanley here. That’s it. None of this ‘don’t hurt us’ nonsense.”

“W-Well it’s not the deal I’m going to shake on!” Mabel says angrily despite the tiny tremor in her voice. 

Bill stares at her, and Stan stares at Bill. “Please,” Stan whispers.

Bill holds out his hand. When Mabel reaches to grab it, Bill snatches her wrist with his other hand. She yelps.

“Last chance, Shooting Star,” Bill says coldly, that awful grin still splitting Stan’s broken face in two. 

Mabel hesitates, but she shakes her head and says with just as much conviction as she had every other time, “You can’t hurt any of us!”

Bill snickers. He tightens his grip on her wrist, then pinches her index finger. “That’s where you’re wrong, Shooting Star,” he says, and he yanks it backwards.

An awful, sickening crunching sound crackles through the air, and Mabel screams. 

“NO!” Stan shouts, lunging at Bill and scrabbling at his hands. 

“What do you think now, Shooting Star? Ready to give me what I asked for?” Bill asks.

“YOU CAN’T TORTURE A KID! YOU MONSTER, YOU’RE TORTURING A GODDAMN KID!” Stan screams.

Mabel squeezes her eyes shut, shaking. She squeaks, “N-No—” and Bill breaks her middle finger too. She cries out again, dissolving into sobs. 

“You’re pretty tough for a kid,” Bill comments, flicking one of her injured fingers. She sobs harder. “Most of the kids in this town were screaming for mercy as soon as I looked at them funny back during Weirdmageddon.” He pauses to enjoy the sound of her crying, sighing happily. “This could stop if you say you’ll agree to your original deal, you know.” She shakes her head, tears flicking from her cheeks with the motion.

“Mabel! Mabel, just do it!” Stan yells. 

Bill shrugs. He grasps her ring finger and bends it backward much more slowly than he had the first two. Mabel’s sobs get caught in her throat as it surpasses its intended angle, and then goes farther and farther and farther until it finally snaps as well. She shrieks, and a flurry of birds take off in a startled mob from the trees nearby. There are tears running down Stan’s intangible cheeks.

“This is getting boring,” Bill says, squeezing her wrist even tighter. “Maybe we should move on to some bigger bones. I wonder how much it’d take to snap this?” he asks, stepping down harder onto her leg. “Or even better!” he gasps, grabbing her arm a few inches below the wrist with his other hand. “Maybe we should figure out just how much work it takes to rip this all the way off?”

Stan drops to his knees, preparing to grovel at Bill’s (his own) feet. But before he can begin, he hears Mabel whimper squeakily, “F-F-Fine, fine fine fine th-the first one the f-first deal w-we’ll do the f-first one…!”

Bill wastes no time. He grabs her injured hand in Stan’s big paw and shakes it hard, then leaps out of the damaged body and into the stone statue.

 

 

Stan can’t see. His ears are filled with a sharp ringing noise, like a high pitched siren just inside his skull. His mind is blank to all but one concept: pain.

His entire head is radiating agony. He doesn’t want to move, he doesn’t want to speak, he doesn’t want to do anything. He can’t do anything. It’s too much. It’s too much all at once out of nowhere and he can’t see and he doesn’t know what’s going on and— 

And Mabel.

Lucidity forces its way through the blinding haze of agony. Mabel. Mabel needs help. But he can’t help, not right now. But he has to, he’s the only one here. He has to he has to he has to. 

He repeats the three word mantra over and over and over until it blends together into a single sound. Hehastohehastohehastohehasto. He forces himself to uncurl from the fetal position on the ground. His head feels like it’s caving in. He takes slow, careful breaths and gets onto his knees. 

“Mabel…?” he hazards, his voice hoarse and wavering. She sniffles. He shakily swats the moisture from his working eye and crawls over to her. “Mabel, sweetie… Y-you’re alright, he’s gone. It’s just me.”

She rubs her eyes on her sweater sleeve. “G-Grunkle Stan…” she peeps, “I… I’m… I’m s—” 

“Can it, kid,” Stan says quickly, dragging himself to his feet and gathering her into his arms. She makes a startled sound.

“Y-you shouldn’t carry me, your… your face…” she protests. Her voice isn’t supposed to be this quiet. 

“Forget about it. We just… we need to… to get somewhere safe…” 

“Th-The mansion,” she says quickly. The sky is beginning to fill with dark clouds. “We need to get there as fast as p-possible.”

Stan breathes in and out in a slow, careful, measured way. Then, he tightens his hold on his great niece, steels himself, and takes off running. 

Over their heads, the clouds turn red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the research process for this chapter, I learned that I am squicked by looking at eye trauma. I’m glad this was such a journey of personal discovery. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, I hope you all had as much fun with that as I had writing this. If not, well, uh... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	22. Chapter 22

It feels like it has been a while since Ford last holed himself up in a lab and focused every part of his mind on a project. His attentions have been consistently split over the past year at sea, as is the cost of embarking upon a research expedition with a mind notably unscientific. He hadn’t regretted any of it, of course; splitting his focus between the exploration and the interaction with his brother had resulted in one of the more enjoyable years of his life. But his mind and work ethic had missed this: the satisfaction and unflappable concentration that come along with a removal of all distractions, with making work the singular point of existence for a time. 

Ford and Fiddleford both found some enjoyment in a frankly unhealthy level of concentration. They had gathered up every scrap of paper and every solitary pen they could get their hands on and locked themselves into the manor’s vast study hours ago. How long, precisely? They aren’t sure. Any clocks in the room had been quickly covered with bedsheets before they began their project; the temptation to keep track of the time was simply too distracting. There was too much to do too quickly for anything at all to get in their way. 

If the circumstances were different, Ford would consider it the most fun he’d had in months. 

In the early moments of their misadventure, Fiddleford feared that the years spent in crazed squalor had dulled his skills in engineering. He handled blank blueprints with a nervous caution, an uncharacteristic wariness that filled Ford’s heart with guilt and dread. The pen shook when Fiddleford handled it, and his warmup sketches were wobbly. Ford did his best to ignore it while he redrew his old blueprints to the best of his memory. But he watched his old friend out of the corner of his eye and wondered if the jittery man could handle the task. 

They had covered the windows with the duvets, making sure no natural light could creep through. The study was filled with lamps, which provided more than enough visibility without giving away any tips as to the passage of time. Anything to remove distractions. They couldn’t afford distractions.

It didn’t take very long for their concerns to be proven moot. Although some warming up was necessary, Fiddleford’s hand remembered its job before his mind had sorted through it all; he found the calculations pouring from his pen as easily as they had three decades before. 

Fiddleford had a vast collection of tomes stocked up in the manor. Ford had asked how many of the books belonged to the Northwests after the second hour. “All but three of them,” Fiddleford had replied. Ford wondered which three, but the conversation had already swept past his thoughts and onto the work ahead of them. 

Ford could remember the blueprints for his destabilizer with significant ease. He had drawn and redrawn and redrawn them hundreds of times as he lost papers through dimensions (it was quite difficult to keep track of his notes in dimensions of perpetual windstorms or dimensions that rained fire), and it felt as though he could draw them with his eyes closed. He mentioned it to Fiddleford, who met the claim with a predictable level of scorn. When Ford attempted to prove himself, they wound up with a curiously crooked and deformed version of the gun that they filed away as a possible design for some sort of potato launcher. After that, Fiddleford made it a habit to ask Ford to read aloud with his eyes closed, to locate books with his eyes closed, to write equations with his eyes closed; he knew them all by heart already, right?. Ford contained his irritation to repeated huffs and glares, which never failed to earn a laugh.

The only interruption came after the third hour, when a knock on the study door shattered the carefully constructed aura of pure concentration. The intruder was promptly shouted at until they could hear quick footsteps disappearing down the hall. After a few minutes, the smell of pizza began permeating the room through the cracks in the door. The scientists plugged said cracks with unused bedsheets and duvets. 

The shell of the gun was assembled from the metal making up the large, black filing cabinets stationed along an entire wall of the study. The sound of saws on that metal made both men cringe—an uneasy reminder of their heightened sensitivity since their last attempt at working alongside one another. Ford whacked his own thumb with a hammer at least four times through the construction process; the digit became dark purple and swollen after that fourth impact. Fiddleford worried that it may be broken. Ford could still move it and force it to perform the standard operations of a thumb, so he chose to ignore it. The ice he had belted to his stomach was long melted.

It was a slightly more complicated process to recreate the gun’s power source. Nothing like what Ford had used before was available in his home dimension; not that he knew of, at least. Someone Ford had met during his travels was the one to find it, to salvage it from a location near incomprehensible to anyone who hadn’t seen the place firsthand. Ford dodged and skirted around questions regarding the element’s discovery. There was no way he wanted to relay the details of those shenanigans to his partner. Some things were better left unshared.

Fiddleford wasn’t sure what compelled him to suggest it, but something told him he should. It was like a tug somewhere deep in his gut that told him it was their best shot. He lightly patted Ford’s leg and hopped down from his chair, pulling open one of the heavy wooden drawers inlaid in the grand desk. After a few moments of rummaging (with a pair of eyes diligently glued to his back), he pulled out a small, black box. It was something he had stumbled upon when he was gathering up what he could salvage of his old work. Ford opened the box as carefully as he could manage with his sore thumb, and found something startlingly similar to the element he had used before. Fiddleford couldn’t remember where it came from. He could, however, remember catching a glimpse of a bald headed man watching him from a distance as he picked it up. He had tried to confront the man for peeping, but when he blinked, he was gone. Ford wondered if it was a ghost.

The element hadn’t been Ford’s discovery in the other dimension, so he couldn’t quite tell what set this stuff apart from it. He wasn’t sure whether it would work or not, but far be it from him to turn it down. The resemblance was close enough to keep his clawing anxiety to a low nausea, and that was about as good as it was going to get. With only another half hour of careful construction, the gun was finished. Much easier the second time. 

Ford stares down at his creation with an almost distancing awe. How long had it taken him to build the Quantum Destabilizer before? Months? Years? DECADES? And here he was, with a near perfect replica sitting on a desk in front of him—a near perfect replica he had completed within a day. 

He thinks. The clocks are still covered, as are the windows.

“Well…” Fiddleford says, adjusting his thick glasses. He pauses for a moment too long. “It’s done?”

Ford nods. “It’s done…” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Quiet fills the room as the two men study the gun. Ford remembers lugging the gun’s twin through countless dimensions, the strap holding it to his back digging into his shoulders. He remembers brandishing it in a dimension of distorted reality, thrown backwards by the force of its blast. He remembers carefully keeping it safe as it lay in the shack, awaiting its moment of glory. He remembers hoisting its considerable weight and taking aim… He remembers a sudden screeching in his ear sending their last hope careening uselessly through a damn HAT…

“Stanford?” Fiddleford prompts hesitantly. Ford jumps. “Didja hear me?”

Ford blinks, then shakes his head, detaching himself from the numb reminiscence. “I’m sorry Fiddleford, could you repeat yourself?”

“How many blasts has this thing got in it?” Fiddleford asks, running his fingers along its glossy metal surface.

Ford folds his arms over his chest, tapping his fingers against his biceps. “We didn’t have very much of that substance you dug up… One, maybe two?” he says with a resigned sigh. Two is a generous estimate, but he’d like to tell himself that his odds are at least a little bit better than they were back then. 

Fiddleford bites his lip, taking his hat off to scratch his head. “That few, is it…?” he asks with a small, nervous laugh. Ford nods quietly. After another pause, Fiddleford offers hesitantly, “You really think this will work?”

Ford hesitates. “I think it’s our best option,” he says. He swallows the lump that had gathered in his throat. “Are you sure you don’t remember where your substance came from? It’s… very reminiscent of the one I had before.”

“I’m sorry, Stanford,” Fiddleford says, his voice thick with regret. He wrings his hat between his gnarled hands. “There’s a lot of stuff I can’t recall…” He grips his hat a little harder. “It was just tucked in with a bunch of my papers. I wasn’t sure what to do with it when I found it, so I just… held onto it. Somethin told me it might come in handy one day…” He looks up at Ford. “Reckon I was onto somethin there.”

“Yes, I suppose you were,” Ford chuckles weakly. There is no way that Fiddleford could have accessed the dimension in which the original element was found. Someone had left it for him. Ford isn’t sure who, but the possibility clinging in his mind makes his stomach twist. 

“What time d’you suppose it is?” Fiddleford asks suddenly, breaking the rather somber mood that had permeated the room.

Ford straightens. “I’m not sure. Let’s take a look, shall we?” he suggests, smiling. He pulls down the blanket covering the wall clock. “Mid afternoon. We took about ten hours.” 

“Not bad!” Fiddleford says with a grin, approaching the covered window. “Just like old times?”

Ford laughs a little. “Well, not JUST like old times. We’re all a little different, aren’t we now?”

Fiddleford laughs as well and yanks down the duvet. 

Ford feels like he has been plunged into ice.

The sky is red, deep red. Billowing plumes of smoke rise into the air, creating streaks of black amid that upsetting crimson. It’s all so familiar, too familiar. It makes his stomach leap up into the back of his throat, his head spin, his knees shake.

“Stanley…” Ford murmurs, taking a step backward. Then another. Then, he whips around, wrenches the door open, and dashes out of the room.

“H-hey! Stanford, wait!” Fiddleford yelps, grabbing the large gun and following him into the hallway.

“WHAT’S GOING ON?!” Ford shouts, bursting into the room the group had met in earlier. The members of the zodiac all jump, startled by the scream. They had been playing a board game while watching a film on the dusty flatscreen. 

“Dr. Pines?” Soos asks, getting up from his spot on the floor. “Did something happen?”

“NONE OF YOU NOTICED?!” Ford cries, clenching his hands into tight fists.

“Noticed WHAT?!” Wendy asks urgently.

“There’s no windows in this room, Stanford,” Fiddleford interjects, tugging on Ford’s arm. The gun is half Fiddleford’s height and hurts his arms to carry. “There’s no way they would’ve seen!”

“Somethin’s going on?” Gideon asks, his brows knitting together with worry. “What’s happening?”

“BILL!” Ford shouts louder. A deathly silence falls over the group.

It allows them to hear another voice bouncing off the polished marble of the foyer down the hall.

“Mabel?!” Dipper cries, the echo repeating the call. “Mabel, where are you?!”

Ford curses, his face turning white. He once again whips around and bolts from the room. This time, an entire crowd of people follows. 

When they all burst into the foyer, Dipper jumps back, raising his arms instinctively. “Have any of you seen Mabel?!” he asks immediately, bouncing back from his reflexive panic. 

“She’s gone? When did you see her last?!” Ford demands urgently, his expression too muddled to read.

“This morning, she was in bed this morning! When I tried to take lunch to her, it was empty!” Dipper explains, his eyes wide.

“What about when you brought her breakfast?” Wendy asks.

“I thought she was still asleep, so I just left it for her!” Dipper’s voice is thick with growing panic. 

“We have to go looking for her!” Wendy says without hesitation.

“Yes,” Ford agrees, reaching for the quantum destabilizer. Fiddleford takes a step back, keeping it out of his reach. “Fiddleford, what are you doing?!”

“S-Slow down for a second, Stanford,” he says, his voice wavering. “You ain’t in any shape to be runnin’ around like that.”

“What?! That’s nonsense! Give me the gun, Fiddleford!”

“Dr. Pines, I think he might be right,” Soos pipes up, “You were hurt pretty bad.”

“What if you get killed or something? Then what?” Pacifica asks.

“Great Uncle Ford, we need to go!” Dipper cries, “Have you seen the sky?! Mabel’s out there somewhere!”

“Fiddleford, give it to me!” Ford begs, his voice cracking, “Mabel and Stanley! Something happened, and we have to go rescue them!”

“I’ll make sure no one gets hurt,” Wendy says, a dark look in her eye. She grabs an ornamental sword off of the wall, yanking it away from its decorative plaque. 

“Me too,” says Soos, picking up an old, wooden musket. 

Fiddleford looks from the two to Ford, and then back. He hesitates, then pushes the quantum destabilizer into Ford’s waiting (trembling) hand. “Remember how many shots,” he warns hesitantly.

Ford nods, slinging the gun over his shoulder, wincing when the impact sends jolts of pain through his back and arm. “Now let’s go!”

 

 

“It’s kinda weird how many decorative weapons there are in that manor, isn’t it?” Soos comments from his place in the back seat of Stan’s car. Wendy had insisted upon driving, to Ford’s chagrin (and her own disgust upon seeing the amount of blood staining the driver’s seat). 

“Yeah, a little,” Wendy mutters. Her foot is like lead against the gas. The car is moving too fast. 

“Great Uncle Ford, are you sure that’s where they’ll be?” Dipper cuts in, yet again.

“That’s where he was when I left him,” Ford replies. His grip on the gun is tight and his gaze is fixed on the sky overhead. 

“Do you think she would’ve gone anywhere else?” Wendy asks, gripping the steering wheel tighter. Dipper shakes his head.

“N-No, she would’ve gone to wherever he is…” Dipper says softly. “I just… Why wouldn’t she tell me…?”

“Try not to take it too hard, little dude,” Soos offers with an attempt at a smile, “I bet she had a good reason!”

“Sometimes…” Ford mutters, “secrets are withheld to keep people safe.” He grips the gun tighter. In a tense and controlled tone, he adds, “It never works.”

Silence settles over the vehicle. 

Until Wendy slams her foot on the brake, and a scream of protest erupts from the tires. Everyone pitches forward in their seats, seatbelts digging into their skin. Someone had stumbled out into the middle of the road ahead of them.

“Whoa, dude, why’d you—?” Soos tries to ask as he unsticks his face from the seat in front of him, but he can’t get out the whole sentence.

“Stanley!” Ford cries, ripping his seatbelt off in a panic and bursting out of the vehicle. Dipper is right behind.

“Mabel!” he shrieks, rushing past his limping great uncle.

“Dipper, wait!” Wendy cries, leaping from the car and scrambling after him. She grabs his arm. “We don’t know for sure it’s really him!”

Ford displays no such uncertainty, hurrying to his brother without pause. “Stanley!” Ford gasps, “Is that Mabel?! Is she alright?!”

“Bill’s not in him anymore! He’s out here!” Dipper shouts, wrenching away from her grasp to close the distance between himself and his sister. “Mabel!”

Stan coughs raspily, then says, “Bill, he… that fucking BASTARD, he broke her damn fingers…” 

“What?!” Dipper gasps.

“We have to get somewhere safe!” Wendy commands, reaching to take her from Stan. He pulls back reflexively, holding his niece closer to his chest. His head is angled down in a rather calculated way, obscuring the right side of his face. “Stan, come on!”

“L-Look, I just… wanna be sure the kid’s safe…” he mutters.

Mabel sniffles, startling everyone. She had been silent up until now. “P-put me down,” she commands, her voice surprisingly sharp for how tearful it sounds. 

Stan hesitates, but does as she asks, bending down and settling her on her feet. Dipper immediately has her in a tight hug. She yelps when her hand is smashed against her chest.

“M-Mabel, I’m sorry!” Dipper gasps, jumping back with the urgency of someone burned. 

She shakes her head, moves her injured hand to the side, and hugs him with her good arm, burying her face into his shoulder. He squeezes her tightly.

“Dudes, we should get going!” Soos says, looking up at the sky worriedly. Wendy nods and ushers the twins back to the car.

“Stanley,” Ford says, hesitantly laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Are you… are you alright…?”

Stan is still bent over part-way, his head angled slightly. It’s like he’s hiding something.

The sound of metal against flesh bounces around Ford’s skull.

“Stanley…?” Ford says softly. His voice sounds so squeaky.

Stan sighs shakily, then finally lifts his head. 

“M-Mr Pines!” Soos gasps, running over. “What happened to your face?!”

“It’s… I just… L-Look, Soos, I don’t wanna…” Stan says, repeatedly trying and failing to finish a sentence. He keeps his gaze fixed resolutely on Soos’s shirt. There’s no way in hell he wants to see anyone’s expression right now.

“Guys! Let’s GO!” Wendy cries. 

Soos puts an arm around Stan’s shoulders to provide some support and hurriedly walks him to the car. “Mr. Pines, you can see, right?”

“Outta the left one, yeah,” he mutters, allowing himself to be gently steered into the backseat. Dipper and Mabel are already there, still glued to each other.

“Soos, you drive. I’m gonna try to fix them up a little,” Wendy orders, climbing into the back as well. No small part of her is glad to be getting away from the gruesome smell of iron that taints the entire front half of the vehicle.

“Right!” Soos says, hopping into the driver’s seat.

“W-Wait, hold on a second,” Stan protests. Then, he raises his voice. “Hey, P-Poindexter! Get over here!”

Ford is rooted to the spot, frozen. He grips the strap of the gun in both hands. His expression is the same one that had appeared on his face when Stan finally lifted his head. All he can hear is the sound of that damn shovel, all he can feel is the vibration running up his arm. 

“Dr. Pines?” Soos calls, “We need to go! You get shotgun again, dude!”

Ford blinks hard, trying to bring his mind and body back together however he can. He inhales sharply, forcing himself to turn and walk back to the car. He feels like he is directing the metal limbs of a robot, directing each little joint individually. 

He is used to the image of eyes appearing in his nightmares. He is used to them being yellow, with a thin slit for a pupil. He is not used to them being a solid, murky black.

“Mabel, let me see your hand,” Wendy asks as gently as she can. She isn’t sure how gentle she needs to be with Mabel right now, but it seems wise to err on the side of caution. Mabel offers the limb out for inspection, and Wendy winces. Three fingers are broken, bent at odd angles. Dipper winces, a look of horror on his face. “Okay. Okay, it’ll be fine,” Wendy comforts, pulling off her flannel shirt. She uses the sword she had brought to slice a few thin strips of cloth from one of the sleeves. “So, we need to start by setting—” 

“J-Just do it quick…” Mabel squeaks, shutting her eyes tightly and gritting her teeth. Wendy sighs softly, clearly not eager to take on the task. She looks over at Stan.

“You know how to do it, right, Stan?” Wendy asks gently. She avoids looking at his wrecked face, instead fixing her eyes on his left ear.

Stan blinks his good eye. “Y… Yeah,” he says hesitantly, “Yeah, I know how.”

“Think you could?”

Stan looks from Wendy to Mabel. Her eyes are still shut tightly. It would be a bit easier without her looking at his face. He exhales slowly and nods. 

He tries not to notice her visible flinch when he takes her small hand in his large ones. He tells himself it’s because of the pain and nothing else. He grasps her index finger in a firm grip, then yanks it.

Mabel’s yell makes everyone cringe, and it makes Stan feel like he’s going to be sick. He pinches her middle finger and gives it a sharp yank too. He can feel the broken bones grind against each other. He tries to focus on it and block out the cries. 

Once all three of her fingers have been reset, Wendy tightly binds them together with the strips of flannel fabric. “There,” she says, her voice brimming with a weary relief, “It’s done.”

Everyone in the car lets out a sigh.

“Mabel…” Dipper asks after a moment of peace. “What happened…?”

Mabel sniffles hard. Her voice is surprisingly steady. “I snuck out… came looking for Bill… So I could get him out of Grunkle Stan... and then we could use the wheel like we were supposed to…”

“W-what?” Dipper asks. “But… But why would you… We said we weren’t doing that!”

“I had to, I had to…!” Mabel protests, tears dribbling down her cheeks. 

“We decided we were doing the gun plan!” Dipper shakes his head hard, his expression a muddled combination of confusion and hurt. “I thought we were a team! Why didn’t you tell me?!” he cries, his voice breaking.

Mabel sniffles again. “You were going to shoot while Bill is still inside…! I couldn’t let you…! You were going to kill Grunkle Stan…!”

Ford flinches. Stan stares at her, then looks over at his brother. He looks back at her. “What are you talking about...?” he asks.

“No, no, dude, that wasn’t the plan!” Soos protests, his eyes wide.

“Yeah, we said we were going to let Bill out right before we shoot!” Wendy adds, “We wouldn’t shoot Stan too!”

Mabel blinks, her indignant mortification morphing into confusion. “W… what…?”

“We all discussed it! When we were eating beans together at the manor yesterday!” Dipper cries. Then he remembers. “A-and… you weren’t… there…” he whispers, “You didn’t hear…”

Silence once again falls over the car, broken only for the bump of tires on gravel and the occasional little sniffle that escapes from Mabel. Stan shifts his broken gaze from his shell shocked niece and nephew, to his silent former employees, and to his stiff, trembling brother. 

“Would you dudes mind if I turned on the radio?” Soos asks softly after a little while of quiet. “I think it might… lighten the mood a little.” No one answers him. He decides to take that as a yes, and switches it on. It had been set to an oldies station, and the slightly crackly audio fills the car with an old war song.

_We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when. But I know we'll meet again some sunny day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered why Bill was so fascinated with a WWII ballad. Who knew he was a fan of oldies?
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! A lot of people were concerned about or somehow confused by Mabel's actions, so hopefully this clears things up a little.


	23. Chapter 23

Ford slams his fist onto the radio hard enough to crack the plastic. The audio, crackling with age, sputters before dying, and the car is once again plunged into silence. Everyone stares at him; Ford can feel their gazes boring into his back, his sides. 

The clouds overhead have grown thick with smoke, mottling the sky with the blacks and reds of a forest consumed by fire. 

Soos coughs awkwardly. “Uh… you sure didn’t like that song, huh Dr Pines?” he says.

“Sixer…” Stan says weakly, reaching forward to rest a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He earns a flinch, and quickly pulls back. 

“He’s watching us,” Ford says simply. He can feel it, he can feel the stares. They’re all looking at him, and so is the sky overhead. 

“You mean Bill?” Wendy asks. Ford doesn’t respond. “So what? Let him watch us,” she says, her face setting into a look of cool resolve. She looks upward and shouts, “Do you hear me, you triangle jerk?! We aren’t afraid of you!”

Dipper grabs her arm, his grip vicelike. “What are you doing?!” he gasps, his eyes almost impossibly wide. “Don’t CHALLENGE him! We don’t have any defence!”

“Sure we do!” Soos chirps, turning the car around and starting the drive back towards town. “Dr Pines has that big gun there.” Ford grips the destabilizer a little tighter and nods once. Fiddleford’s warning flickers through his mind. _Remember how many shots._

“Soos, where are you driving us?” Stan asks. The car bounces when the old tires hit a snag in the road. A fresh wave of pain explodes in his head, and he doubles over instinctively, his breath catching in his throat. 

“Mr Pines! Are you alright?!” Soos gasps, twisting in the driver’s seat to look back at him.

“Y-Yeah, Soos, watch the road!” Stan hisses through gritted teeth. “We’ve all survived too much to go down when you drive the car into a tree.”

Soos turns back around quickly, but his eyes keep worriedly darting to the rearview mirror.

“Just get us back there fast, Soos,” Wendy says cooly, “If Bill shows his face before we make it, we’ll blast him out of the air.”

“Get us where?” Stan asks again, his voice tense. It has been one hell of a long time since he was last in this much pain. He idly wonders what his mug must look like. Judging by the face Ford had pulled, it must be pretty damn ugly. 

“Back up to… where we came from,” Wendy explains, bracing herself against the back of the driver’s seat as the car bounces on uneven ground again. This time, it’s Mabel who lets a small, choked sound of discomfort escape. Dipper hugs her a bit tighter. “We’ve got a backup.”

“A backup?” Ford asks. He is only half paying attention to the conversation going on around him. Much of his mind is focused on the sky, where his eyes remain fixed. A few veins of purple and yellow have joined the red and black. He has yet to spot the telltale X of a torn dimension. He wonders why. 

“Yeah, dude,” Soos says with a firm nod. “When you and Old Man—I mean, Mr McGucket were working on building that, the rest of us were talking about what we should do. And we decided to set up a plan B, in case something went wrong. Or just if it would be easier.”

“We didn’t know for sure if it would even work. You know, since… Bill was still… where he was,” Wendy adds, glancing at Stan. “But even if it didn’t, we figured having it ready would be smart.”

“Wait…” Dipper whispers, a look of realization drawing over his face. “You… you have a… a wh—” 

“Shh!” Wendy cuts him off quickly, urgently looking out the window. “Don’t say it out loud. If someone is listening, we don’t want him to know.”

“But you do…?” Mabel asks softly.

Wendy nods. “Near… you know where.”

“I don’t,” Stan mumbles.

“Well, that’s why Soos is driving,” Wendy retorts smoothly.

“Also because I can see out both eyes,” Soos adds. Ford shivers.

Stan looks over at his brother worriedly. “Sixer? What is it?”

Ford doesn’t answer, leaning forward in his seat to peer through the windshield. He is scanning the sky urgently, searching for the brazen rip in the atmosphere. It’s nowhere to be seen. 

“Great Uncle Ford…?” Dipper asks hesitantly, “What are you looking for…?”

In a voice barely audible, Ford mutters, “He hasn’t broken from our dimension…” A few perplexed looks are exchanged among the other passengers.

“Dude, what do you mean by that?” Soos asks hesitantly.

Ford keeps scanning the sky, conflicted feelings bubbling in his chest. He does not want to find the hole; it would mean everything they had seen a year ago was bearing down on them again. But then again, finding it would make sense. He would know what to expect, what was happening. How to proceed.

He can’t find it. And he doesn’t know what Bill is doing.

“Poindexter, c’mon...” Stan says gently, reaching to touch his shoulder again. He pauses, then withdraws his hand before contact is made. “We can’t read your mind, you know? That… obscure stuff makes sense to you, but you’ve gotta elaborate a bit more than that for the rest of us.”

Ford grits his teeth and grips the strap of his gun even tighter. “Do you recall his Weirdmageddon? How he used the rift to rip a hole into the fabric of reality, allowing his nightmare realm access to our dimension?”

“Is that what that was?” Soos asks curiously.

“Yes…” Mabel says softly, “It’s… how he got here…”

Dipper squeezes her again.

“I assumed… that is what he would be attempting now,” Ford continues, moving the subject away from the rift. “To reopen the passage and rekindle his… party.”

“But… he’s not…?” Dipper asks softly. 

“Not that I can discern,” Ford confirms. He leans against the side of the car, pressing his head against the glass of the window. There is still no sign of the great gash parting the sky. 

“If he’s not doing that…” Dipper murmurs, “Then… what is he doing…?”

Ford grits his teeth harder, his jaw twinging in protest. “I don’t know.”

“Does it matter what he’s doing? He’s not attacking us right now, and that’s good enough for me,” Wendy says, her voice thick with vitriol.

“Y-You don’t understand, Wendy,” Dipper says quickly, wringing his sister’s sweater sleeve between his hands. “We always knew what he was doing before, and could kind of… guess what would happen.”

“It allowed us to anticipate some things…” Ford mutters. 

“Anticipating things didn’t exactly do us much good,” Stan points out. He had never really noticed how damn bumpy the roads were before. He wonders how much it would cost to have them paved. He also wonders how much more of this his skull can take before it finally makes good on its threats to split open. “Anticipating things didn’t keep anyone safe.”

“It let us make plans,” Dipper protests.

“Plans that didn’t work, kid,” Stan retorts, his tone far harsher than he had intended. The pain is getting to him. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you, Dipper…” he adds quickly.

“Guys, c’mon, have we ever really known what was going to happen anyway?” Soos asks, once again attempting to lighten everyone’s spirits. 

Mabel wipes her nose on her sleeve and nods. “Y-Yeah, Soos is right,” she says, forcing a teary smile. “Going in blind… i-it’s what we do best…!”

Ford clenches and unclenches his fists around the strap of the destabilizer. Spontaneity in the details is one matter, but having no clue what Bill’s intentions might be is something else entirely. In the past, he always had an inkling: that Bill wanted the portal built, that Bill intended to gain a physical form, that Bill wanted to use the rift. Ford had assumed that this would be no different. “Against Bill, it could be a death sentence.”

“Poindexter, you’ve gotta stop… fixating on this,” Stan says, digging his fingernails into his thigh. “Let’s quit wondering what his plan is and focus on getting one ourselves. One that'll work; that’d be good.”

“We already have a plan, Mr Pines!” Soos chirps excitedly, leaning in closer to the wheel. A determined grin flashes over his face, and the car picks up some speed. 

“We do?” Dipper questions.

“Yeah, remember what we were just telling you?” Wendy reminds him, grinning. “And with that big gun on our side too, we’ll be ready no matter what happens!”

“Don’t drive through town,” Ford directs forcefully. Soos jumps; the command had come out of nowhere.

“Why not, Dr Pines?” he asks hesitantly, “Shouldn’t we see if everything’s safe there?”

“No,” Ford insists, “Skirt around it.”

“Soos, we can check on everyone later,” Wendy says, “I think we should listen to him.”

“What’s bugging you, Soos?” Stan asks. He pries his hand away from his thigh and buries his nails into the car seat instead. 

“It’s no big deal, dude,” he says, turning onto a small dirt road that winds carelessly through the trees along the outskirts of town. “I was just hoping we could pass by Wendy’s house and see if everyone’s okay.”

“Sure they are,” Wendy says firmly, repressing the tiny flicker of doubt that passes through her chest. “Between my dad and your Abuelita, no one will be able to even go near the place.” 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Soos agrees, his smile faltering a little. 

Mabel and Dipper exchange glances. They don’t have time to pay visits to anyone, no matter who they are. “We’ll see them as soon as we’re done,” Dipper offers.

“Course we will,” Wendy says, smiling at him. “Thanks, little dude,” she adds in a slightly softer tone.

The car jerks upward as it bounces over a ditch. Pained noises slip from three different voices, but Stan’s is loudest. He swears, cupping his face in his hands. 

“Mr Pines, I’m sorry!” Soos yelps, “I should’ve slowed down more!”

“Sh-Shut it, Soos, I’m fine…” he mutters tensely. 

“Stanley…” Ford says quietly, “I’m sorry…”

Stan stiffens, then looks over at him. Ford hasn’t moved; he’s still pressed against the car door, his neck craned to see as much of the sky as possible. For a moment, Stan wonders if he’d actually said anything at all, or if his pain-addled mind is playing tricks on him.

“What’re you sorry for?” Wendy asks. A trick it was not. 

“Sixer,” Stan says warningly, his voice thick with building frustration. 

“I tried… very hard… to avoid injuring you,” Ford murmurs. “I'm sorry that I failed…”

“Ford, I swear to God,” Stan bites out angrily, “Don't apologize to me. Don't you dare.” 

Ford finally twists in his seat, looking at his brother with an expression of vulnerable confusion. “Why shouldn't—?” he starts. 

Stan quickly cuts him off, the fury in his voice growing. “He was hurting you. He could’ve… He could’ve KILLED you, Ford. Don’t apologize to me for keeping yourself alive.”

“Killed him…?” Mabel says weakly.

Ford doesn’t respond, keeping his eye on Stan. Stan unwaveringly meets his gaze, his bruised and bloodied face contorted with fury. “It was a rough fight,” Ford mutters softly.

“Damn right it was. And you did what you had to do,” Stan grumbles, “Actually, I wish you would’ve gotten it together and done it sooner.”

“I was trying to avoid damaging your body,” Ford protests indignantly. “I remember what it was like to be Bill’s puppet. Even if he is in control, you are the one who suffers the consequences of what is done!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Stan asks with a scoff, gesturing to his face. “I can’t see outta my right eye, Sixer.” Ford’s eyes widen in horror, and Stan quickly adds, “But I’m pretty sure it’s just because of all the swelling. Look, my point is that it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what happened to me or who did it; all that matters is that we both made it out of there alive and in one damn piece. Got it?”

Ford sighs weakly. “I don’t want to hurt you, Stanley.”

Stan’s expression softens some. He reaches forward and lays a hand on Ford’s shoulder. This time, Ford doesn’t flinch away. “Yeah, yeah… I’m not saying I don’t appreciate it. Lord knows I would’ve preferred to avoid this, if I could’ve,” Stan says, gesturing to his injured face with a smile. “All I’m saying is that I don’t want you to feel bad about it. You did what you had to do, and I’d rather be one-eyed than let that triangle off you.” 

Soos slams on the car breaks rather suddenly. He had been watching the exchange between the old twins too intently to notice that he was on a direct collision course with the grand entrance of the Northwest/McGucket manor. Everyone is rattled by the abrupt stop, earning a number of pained sounds. 

“S-Sorry about that, dudes,” Soos says awkwardly. 

“It’s fine, Soos. Let’s just get going,” Wendy says, grinning as she clambers out of the car.

“So… Where is it?” Mabel asks, getting out after her. She’s careful to keep her injured hand close to her body. Dipper follows.

“It’s just out in the—” Soos starts to respond. 

“We’ll lead the way,” Wendy cuts in. Then, she mouths, “Don’t say where we’re going out loud. We seriously don’t want anyone overhearing.”

Soos nods seriously, then goes around the car and offers a hand to Stan. “Need help, Mr Pines?” he offers. Stan waves him off and gets out on his own, grunting.

“I’m not that old yet, Soos,” he replies snidely.

Soos then turns his attention to Ford, who has been working on easing himself out of the car with great care. “What about you, Dr Pines?” 

Ford hesitates, then takes it, allowing him to bear some of the weight while he gets settled and balanced on his sore leg. “Not a word,” he hisses to Stanley.

“What? I wasn’t going to say anything,” Stan snickers.

“Let’s just go,” Ford huffs. Wendy nods and waves her hand towards the woods surrounding the manor. 

“It’s not too far,” she says as the troupe begins their downhill hike through the trees. “We just wanted to be out enough that no one would find us by mistake.”

“How is there enough space through all these trees?” Dipper asks, pushing a low branch out of his way.

“We found a clearing a little ways out!” Soos explains, “It looked pretty fresh.”

“Fresh?” Mabel questions. The pain from her hand is starting to die enough for it to be ignorable.

“Yeah, kinda like the trees were cut down a little while ago,” Wendy says, “I don’t keep too close of an eye on where my brothers go practicing. I suspect it was one of them.”

“You would know,” Stan muses, keeping a close eye on his brother. The hill isn’t doing Ford’s limp any favours; he keeps reaching for trees to lean on and retain his balance. “You doing alright there, Poindexter?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course,” he replies distantly. His eyes are fixed upward instead of on the ground in front of himself. 

“You aren’t gonna see anything through the branches,” Stan says, “Keep your eyes ahead of you. You don’t wanna trip.”

“Stanley, please, I’m more than capable of hiking in these woods. I know them like the back of my—” Ford attempts to say, cutting himself off when he trips on a root. Stan catches him and gives him a look. Ford glares at him, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“We’re almost there, guys,” Wendy says, picking up her pace.

“What do we have to do for it besides stand in it and hold hands?” Dipper asks.

“That should be all,” Ford mutters, his brow furrowing in thought. The paintings in the cave hadn’t mentioned anything further, and he had never come across anything in his travels to suggest there was a caveat. The fact remains, however, that he doesn’t know for certain how the Zodiac and the Cipher Wheel function. He grips the strap of the quantum destabilizer again, trying to keep it from digging too hard into his injured shoulder. If something were to go wrong, he would have a backup. 

“There it is!” Soos chirps, pushing through the brush and into a small clearing. The remainder of the Zodiac are waiting there, looking nervous. 

Fiddleford wastes no time, immediately hurrying up to them. “C’mon, c’mon, let’s get this done quickly!” he urges, grasping Dipper’s and Soos’s arms and tugging on them both. They allow him to pull them over.

“Yeah, let’s get this over with,” says Pacifica as she looks up at the sky. 

“Is Bill… doin’ anything…?” Gideon asks hesitantly. He steps aside for a moment to let Wendy pass by.

“No, not that we saw,” Stan says, ushering Mabel into her square. “Whoever’s holding Mabel’s hand has to be careful, got it?”

“Would you hurry up?! Why are we dragging this out?!” Robbie cries.

Stan and Ford share a glance. They grasp each other’s hands, and approach the wheel together.

A deep, rumbling laugh rises up from the ground on all sides, the pitch sliding upwards as the sound fills the air. Everyone freezes.

_Of course it couldn’t be that easy,_ Stan thinks, squeezing his brother’s hand tight.

“You idiots never learn!” cries the distorted voice, far too familiar. Everyone scrambles backwards as the triangular demon rises out of the ground in the centre of the wheel. “Now you’re going to pay!” A wave of an inky black arm produces a hail of fire.

Pacifica shrieks, immediately scrambling out of the clearing. Robbie follows, tripping in his urgency. The fire catches in the brush of the clearing, burning up the paint that had made the wheel. Everyone remaining rushes back from the blaze, and Ford yanks the quantum destabilizer from his back.

“Bill!” Dipper cries as he trembles bodily. “Get out of here!”

Bill turns on him. “Big words for such a little kid, Pine Tree!” he says giddily, lifting him into the air with a wave of his hand. Once he’s within reach, Bill grasps him by the collar of his shirt.

“Dipper!” Mabel gasps, running forward. 

“Mabel, wait!” Wendy yells, grabbing the back of her sweater and yanking her back. “The fire!”

“That’s right, Shooting Star! Don’t you think you’ve dealt with me enough today?” Bill asks, cackling at his own pun. He raises his free hand and zaps Dipper with a jolt of blue electricity. He shrieks.

“No!” screams Stan, trying to rush forward as well. A burst of flame directly in front of his feet has him jumping backwards on instinct. Bill laughs.

“You too, Stanley! Better stay back, or you’ll really know what it feels like to BURN!” he warns, his voice dropping on the final word. Dipper pants, grasping at the hand on his collar. His muscles twitch. 

“S-Stanford!” Fiddleford finally cries, his panic built to an intolerable degree. “What’re you waitin’ for?!” 

The answer would be, of course, nothing. Ford is carefully, carefully lining Bill up in the sights of the destabilizer. He had been counting on Bill’s distraction. The yell redirects his attention, and Bill turns on Ford. His eye narrows. Fiddleford makes a strangled noise and slaps his hands over his mouth.

“What’s that?” Bill asks in a surprisingly conversational tone. Before Ford can answer, Bill continues, “I thought I wrecked that thing a year ago. Did you go dimension hopping to remake it, Sixer?”

“Don’t call me that,” Ford growls, still trying to line up the reticule. He isn’t surprised at all when the gun is wrenched from his hands. The strap digs into the wound across his back, yanking him forward roughly. He hits the ground with a pained grunt. Stan’s breath catches, quickly dropping to his knees and helping Ford back up. He looks stable enough, even with his expression contorted in pain and anger. 

“All these years, and you still don’t know how to shoot,” Bill tuts, setting the gun on fire. “You’d think you’d know better by now, Sixer!” 

“What do you want?” Ford hisses through his clenched teeth.

“What do you think I want?!” Bill laughs, leering down at him. Dipper squirms feebly in his grip.

Then, Bill suddenly cries out in pain, dropping him. 

“E-Everyone, scramble!” Fiddleford shouts, stuffing his ray gun back into his belt and taking off into the trees. He had zapped Bill in the back. Gideon doesn’t hesitate to follow him.

Wendy runs into the fire, grabbing Dipper and towing him out. As soon as they’re clear of the flames, Soos picks him up. Wendy grasps Mabel’s arm, and the four of them run as well. Stan does the same, but pauses a few feet into the trees. He swears and whips around, running back to Ford, who is significantly slowed by his limp.

“N-No, wait!” Mabel shrieks, reaching futilely for the remaining two even as she’s towed off. Stan and Ford watch them go, gripping each other’s hands tightly. Their hobbling pace is too slow.

“YOU!” Bill growls, turning on them. The burn that had appeared on the yellow brick of his body disappears, and he snaps his fingers. The brush comes to life, tree roots tearing themselves from the ground and ensnaring them both. Ford hisses in pain as his sore leg is yanked down. They keep their tight grip on each other’s hands as they’re pulled to the ground. Bill looms over them both.

“What are you playing at, Cipher?!” Ford spits, his voice strained. “The portal’s gone, and so is the rift! There’s nothing left for you!”

Bill blinks, then laughs. It drags on and on.

“Shut up, would you?!” Stan growls, “Quit jerkin’ us around and get to the damn point already!”

“You think this is still about that?!” Bill laughs, his black cane appearing in his hand with a poof. He twirls it theatrically. “Oh Fordsy, surely you know that in a few hundred years, ANYONE could remake that thing!”

“Then what are you doing back here NOW?!” Ford retorts, squirming against the thick roots binding his legs. It sends bursts of pain up his spine from both his leg and his back. 

“Hold still, Poindexter!” Stan hisses to him, reading the brief flash of pain that had crossed his face.

“Man, I really can’t believe you’re smart for your species. Use that brain of yours, IQ!” Bill taunts, tapping Ford’s head with his cane. “How am I supposed to deal with maggots in the future if I’m stuck inside Stanley’s disgusting mindscape?!”

“So you got your way! Leave us alone!” Ford huffs angrily. 

“Whoa, what happened to ‘Stay out of my dimension’? I didn’t know you’d changed your tune to just your own time period! What, does it not matter anymore once you’re dead?” Bill laughs. “You’re not much of the hero type, are you, Sixer?”

“What do you want with us?!” Stan cuts in.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Bill asks. His body turns red and his voice drops low as he growls, “REVENGE FOR THE HELL YOU PUT ME THROUGH!”

Ford shudders, drawing back from the sound on instinct. Stan remembers driving his fist into that giant, red eye, while the demon begged for his life.

He laughs. Bill loses the visage in surprise. 

“You’re pathetic,” Stan says with a grin, “You talk a lot of game about being so much smarter than any of us, but you still hold petty grudges.”

Ford stares at his brother. “Stanley, what the hell—?”

Bill glowers down on Stan. “You’re an idiot, aren’t you?” Bill asks, but it’s not Bill’s voice.

It’s the voice of Filbrick Pines.

Both men freeze.

Bill snaps his fingers, and the woods around them vanish. They’re in an old living room, and their father stands in front of them. He shakes his head. 

“I always knew you were an idiot beside your brother, but I underestimated just how much.” He storms closer, the stony glare penetrating through his thick glasses. “I thought maybe, just maybe, you could do one thing right. But instead, you got him stuck in detention with you again. Wasting time he doesn’t have. Can’t you get it through your skull that he is our ticket to riches, that this project has to be perfect?!” 

Stan shudders. It’s a memory, he knows it is; a memory he had relived in nightmares more than once. But in this moment, his father’s furious voice and looming glare are the most intensely real things he has ever experienced. 

“When those men from that school come to check on it next week, it had better be PERFECT. If there is a single thing wrong with it, I will be blaming YOU. And I promise you: it won’t be pretty.”

“SHUT UP!” Ford screams suddenly, and the image is fractured. Stan blinks, and he’s back in the woods. He has been holding his breath; it comes rushing out of him all at once. His hand is being squeezed almost painfully tight, and his brother is glowering at Bill with a fury Stan hasn’t seen on his face in ages. “That wasn’t his fault! It was an accident!”

“What’re you defending him for, Sixer?” Bill taunts playfully. “Last time I checked, you agreed with ole Pa!” He snaps his fingers again, and this time, it’s Ford glaring down at them in that living room, looking almost hysterical in his rage. 

“This was no accident, Stan; you did this! You did this because you couldn't handle me going to college on my own!” he screams.

The Ford beside Stan (the real one, he tells himself, but his mind is shuddering and seizing up in horror and can’t quite seem to grasp it) cries back, “It WAS an accident! It was an accident, and I was wrong to blame him! I was WRONG!” 

“Why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future?!” he sees himself scream, and it feels so surreal. He hadn’t realized just how distraught, how _unhinged_ he had looked in that moment. It hurts to watch. 

“It wasn’t his fault!” Ford screams at himself, feeling tears sting his eyes. “It wasn’t his fault, you idiot, shut up! You’re making the biggest mistake of your life! You’re making a mistake!”

A loud crashing sound slices through the scene, a crashing sound that isn’t supposed to be there. The vision disintegrates, and a distorted shriek fills the air. They’re back in the woods again, the roots that had been binding them falling away. A huge tree had fallen, knocking into the demon’s physical form on its way down. 

“Stan, Ford!” Wendy cries, “Come on! Get in the car, quickly!”

The two men are shivering, gripping each other’s hands painfully tight. They blink heavily, trying to gain their bearings. 

Wendy hops out of the car and runs over, grabbing their arms and yanking. “Come ON! The fire’s spreading, we need to get out of here!” 

Using the momentum she provides, they drag themselves to their feet on shaking legs and limp to the car. It’s dented and damaged from being driven directly through the trees. Once they have been unceremoniously shoved inside it, Wendy dives back into the front seat, and slams her foot onto the gas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My birthday is Aug 12 (read: tomorrow!!) and my tumblr is embulalia. Do with this knowledge what you will. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	24. Chapter 24

There’s an overwhelming amount of noise and confusion bouncing around the inside of the small vehicle. Wendy is at the wheel this time, as Soos was less eager to recklessly force the car through trees. Dipper, Mabel, Gideon, and Fiddleford are crammed into the back, and after the older Pines twins had joined them, it had become quite uncomfortable. 

Mabel had pulled off her sweater, leaving herself in a white tank top that is not nearly warm enough for the weather. The soft, squishy garment is being used as a makeshift pillow for Ford, in the hopes of keeping his head from being knocked around as the car bounces roughly. He had protested, wanting the cushion to go to Stan or to Dipper, but he was overruled. Loath to admit it as he is, that is probably for the best. He can feel his head spinning, his stomach turning flips, anxiety clawing inside of his chest. He can’t tell if it’s because of what had just happened or if it’s something more insidious.

As soon as Ford’s skull was properly cushioned, everyone’s attention went to Dipper. He’s shaking, trembling from head to toe. He smells faintly of burnt meat. Mabel is attempting to uncoil him enough for her to look at his injury. The urgent back and forths going on around him had been quite easy to ignore; Ford attempts to tune back in, sorting out the rapid conversation. 

“It was like a crackle of blue lightning!” Fiddleford yelps, his voice wavering up and down in pitch. 

“O-oh Lord, not again, I ain't made for this…” Gideon mutters. He seems near hysterics, the actions taken against Dipper ringing a little too familiar. A cold shiver runs down Ford’s spine. 

“Mabel, are you doing something yet?!” Wendy barks. 

“I'm trying!” 

“L-like a bolt from the blue, but the bolt was blue too!” Fiddleford grips what remains of his hair tightly in his gnarled hands. 

“Is the kid okay?” Stan asks quietly, but it still cuts through the noise like a knife through hot wax. His voice sounds somewhat distant, shaky, as if one word too loudly spoken might shatter him. He is not looking at Dipper, his gaze fixed instead on his hands clasped in his lap. 

“I-I don't know!” Mabel cries in return, “He won't let me look!”

“Dipper, just show her!” Wendy begs from the driver’s seat. Her grip on the wheel is impossibly tight. 

Dipper makes a strangled noise in return. 

“Dude, please, you're really freaking us out here!” Soos laughs weakly. 

Ford watches his nephew’s face as closely as his hazy mind will allow. “Dipper,” he says softly, startling the boy. Dipper looks up at him. His eyes are wide and tearful. “It will be alright,” Ford promises, meeting his gaze directly. They hold the look for a few moments as Dipper searches his great uncle. Then, he slowly uncurls, a soft hiss slipping from his throat. 

His shirt is singed, and quite badly. The fabric is not fully burned through. So, Mabel grasps the hem with one shaking hand and carefully lifts it. His skin is furiously red and irritated with white streaks spiderwebbing across his torso, where the pulse had hit. A painful, serious burn, but not nearly as gruesome as it might have been. Even Dipper joins the collective sigh of relief. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, dislodging his hat. 

“S-see?” Mabel laughs, trying to sound self-assured despite the fact that she had been near hysterics only a moment ago. “I knew you were tougher than Bill!”

Dipper snorts. “Sure you did…” he mumbles. His muscles are still twitching, but perhaps less violently. 

“We all know that you're a fighter, Dipper,” Ford says, a proud smile tugging at his lips. The memory of powerful surges rocketing under his skin, through his muscles, through his bones is still agonizingly clear in his mind. For Dipper to have withstood that and already be bouncing back… Truly, the children never cease to amaze. 

“Hey, Mr Pines?” Soos asks, “Are you alright?” Ford looks away from his nephew and back to his twin. Dipper’s injury had provided a moment’s distraction from what had just happened. But looking at Stan’s face again only sharpens Ford’s awareness of the tear marks on his cheeks and the awful, twisting feeling in his gut. 

Stan is very obviously struggling to keep himself in control. His functional eye is wide, his skin pasty. Tears have cut swathes through patches of dirt and blood from the past few days. He looks like he might be sick at any moment. Ford really wishes they had given the sweater-cushion to him instead. 

“Mabel…” Ford says, straightening in his seat. When she turns to him, he nods towards Stan. She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, then looks around the cramped backseat. 

“Wendy…? You don’t still have that shirt you ripped up earlier, do you…?” she asks hesitantly. 

“It’s probably back there somewhere,” Wendy says through gritted teeth. She jerks the wheel suddenly to avoid an overturned log too large to drive over.

“Anyone see it?” Mabel asks, looking around the floor, searching among the crowd of shoes. Awkward squirming ensues as the sardine-packed people grope about in the limited space. 

“It’s green, ain’t it?” Fiddleford asks, pulling his knees up to his chest to clear out the floor a tad. 

“Turquoise,” Ford corrects. He leans forward to join the search, only to be gently but promptly pushed back in place by Mabel. 

“Hold still, Grunkle Ford,” she lightly scolds, looking him directly in the eye. He blushes slightly. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“Mabel, I think Gideon’s sitting on it,” Dipper pipes up, tugging lightly on a bit of green fabric poking out from under Gideon’s thigh. He jumps.

“D-Dipper Pines, k-keep your hands away from me!” he yelps. Mabel grasps the fabric and, with a firm yank and a flourish, rips the shirt out from the other kid, nearly knocking him out of his seat. He yelps again, grasping at the ripped cushion in a panic. 

“Sorry about that, Gideon,” Mabel says, only a tiny amount of insincerity slipping into her tone. She crawls over Ford’s lap, whispering another apology to him. She positions herself on his knees, pulls her lip between her teeth, and leans forward towards Stan. He doesn’t notice, his monocular gaze fixed on the seat in front of him. His jaw is clenched, his fingers dug into his knees. “Grunkle Stan?” Mabel says softly, then very lightly taps his shoulder when he doesn’t respond. He starts, a tiny sound escaping his chest.

“M-Mabel,” he says, blinking hard. He clears his throat. “Be careful there, s-sweetie, don’t wanna fall. Road’s p-pretty bumpy.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m being careful,” she chirps, grinning widely. The car bounces and tosses her forward. Ford quickly grabs her, keeping her held in his lap. She puffs her hair out of her eyes. “Thanks, Grunkle Ford.”

“Not a problem, Mabel,” he replies. He looks back to Stan, lightly nudging his leg with his knee. Crammed together as they are in the backseat, the motion has to be fairly dramatic for it to feel intentional. It makes Stan jump and then cringe, his hand coming up to his injured eye. “Sorry, Stanley,” Ford says quickly, wincing.

“F-Forget it, Poindexter…” Stan says tensely, gritting his teeth. “Just… forget it…”

Mabel glances worriedly at Ford, then back to Stan. “Hey, Grunkle Stan? Can I… clean your face up a little?”

Stan hesitates. “Mabel, i-it’s pretty gruesome—” 

Wendy cuts him off, “What, like being covered in dry blood ISN’T gruesome? Just let her do it, she’s already seen your eye.”

“You’ll feel better if you’re clean,” Mabel promises more gently. 

Stan’s eye flicks from his great niece to his former employees to his brother. Ford nods a little at him and nudges his leg again. Stan sighs and drags his hand away from his face. 

No matter how many times Ford sees Stan’s injury, it still punches him freshly in the gut. He grits his teeth, caught between wanting to grab his brother’s hand again or draw away from him. Stan answers for him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it tightly. 

“Does it hurt…?” Mabel asks quietly.

“Smarts,” Stan mumbles gruffly. He sucks in a sharp breath when Mabel rubs the flannel fabric against his skin. The dry blood comes off in flakes, slowly revealing dark bruising and ugly swelling underneath. Ford grimaces.

“Stanley…” he says weakly. Stan shoots a sharp glare at him.

“Damn it, quit apologizing to me already, Sixer. I told you before that it doesn’t matter anym—” He hisses when a bump in the road has Mabel putting accidental pressure on his broken nose. Before she has time to spit out her own apologies, he continues, his voice frayed and cracking. “It’s in the past. It doesn’t m-matter anymore...”

Ford squeezes his hand softly and pretends not to notice the tears welling in Stan’s eye. 

“It’s in the past…” Stan mutters again, hiccoughing on a suppressed sob that everyone could hear.

For a moment, the only sound in the car is Stan’s shuddering breath.

Then, a loud, awful crash sounds from somewhere behind them, shaking the entire forest. 

“What was that?!” Fiddleford yelps, scrambling around in his seat like a raccoon to look out the back window. 

“Wendy! S-Step on it!” Dipper cries. Wendy grips the wheel tightly, leans forward, and slams her foot down. The beat up car lurches forward, the tires screeching against the loose surface of the path. 

“Oh L-Lord oh Lord oh Lord,” Gideon babbles, shaking in panic. He grips his poofy white hair in his pudgy hands.

“Was that Bill?!” Mabel squeaks, instinctively cradling her injured hand against her body. 

“Probably,” Ford says darkly, “We have to get out of here. To somewhere safe.”

“Dudes, what about the shack?!” Soos suggests, gripping the fabric of his seat tightly. “Doesn’t it still have that protecty thingy around it?!”

“H-How could it?!” Dipper protests, his voice wavering with his twitches, “Bill got in and out before—!” The car skips off the ground for a moment, then hits it hard, launching everyone upward. 

“Don’t panic, dudes, it was just a big bump in the road!” Soos says quickly. 

“Anyone got a better idea than the shack?!” Wendy asks. She allows less than one second of quiet to pass. “Alright, shack it is!” She grips the wheel tightly and yanks it hard, the car spinning around. With the new, slightly bumpier direction chosen, she stomps down harder on the gas and has them rocketing forward again. Another massive crash sounds from where they had been not long ago. 

“H-He’s gaining on us!” Mabel cries.

“W-what’re we gonna do?!” Fiddleford yelps, gripping Ford’s coat sleeve. “That w-weird wheel thingy didn’t work!”

“We can try it again!” Wendy bites out through clenched teeth.

“Not without Pacifica and Robbie we can’t!” Dipper protests.

“What else is there?!” Gideon shrieks, his eyes wide and face even paler than usual.

“Wendy, look out!” Stan suddenly screams. She yanks the wheel hard, the car skidding forward sideways with the squeals of tires. A massive tree comes crashing down just behind them, narrowly missing the back of their vehicle. 

The abrupt, panicked stop had thrown everyone forward harshly. Ford quickly jerks back up, his head spinning and his stomach twisting harshly. He had accidentally pinned Mabel to the seat in front of him. “Are you alright?” he asks, his words coming out a bit clumsily. 

She nods, her eyes squeezed tight. She had jostled her hand and is riding out some sharp pain. 

“W-What happened?” Fiddleford asks, sounding dazed.

“Tree came down…” Stan grumbles, cradling his face in his big hand. “What’d you stop for…?”

“Sorry. Panicked,” Wendy says, rubbing her forehead where it had collided with the steering wheel. 

“Dude, you alright?” Soos asks her worriedly. She nods, gritting her teeth. 

“Everyone okay?” she asks, twisting around in her seat. The people crammed into the backseat nod slowly, picking themselves back up. 

“Wendy, we need to keep moving,” Stan says through his clenched jaw. “I don’t think that was natural…”

“Yeah…” Wendy says quietly, taking a deep breath and repositioning her hands on the wheel. Then, she steps on the gas more gradually this time, trying to avoid throwing anyone around much more.

“I-Is it Bill?” Gideon squeaks, “It’s B-Bill, ain’t it?”

“Almost certainly,” Ford mumbles. He feels like his head is full of cotton. He must’ve hit the front seat harder than he realized. 

“We gotta do somethin about this, Stanford,” Fiddleford says, gripping his arm tightly. Ford nods and regrets doing so immediately. 

“Th-There isn’t anything left for us to do,” Dipper says, clutching at his shirt with his twitching fingers. “We can’t do the Zodiac w-with just us, and he destroyed the new d-destabilizer.”

“We’ve gotta do SOMETHING,” Wendy says, her voice sounding almost like a growl, “We aren’t just gonna let that triangle take us down. Not after we already beat him once.”

“Grunkle Ford, what should we do?” Mabel asks, wiping her eyes on her sweater sleeve as she beats down the pain in her hand.

Ford tries to think, but his thoughts are swimming in sludge, and although he grasps for them, he cannot reach them. He grips Stan’s hand tighter and tighter as he struggles to put together a cohesive response, an idea, some semblance of a plan. 

“Sixer—” Stan murmurs, trying to ask if his brother is alright. Before he can, a chirp comes from the passenger seat.

“Hey Dr Pines, Bill’s in a regular body now, isn’t he?” Soos asks, twisting around to look back at the pale faced old man.

Ford blinks, feeling a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. He swipes it away heavy handedly. “Y… Yes,” he says slowly, trying to piece together what Soos is getting at. “In a sense, he is.”

“So like, when that tree we knocked down with the car hit him, it hurt him, didn’t it?”

Stan sits up a little straighter, and the younger twins share excited glances. “Y-You don’t reckon we could…?” Fiddleford asks, his eyes wide.

“W-Wait, you don’t actually m-mean we should just… just…” Gideon whispers. Then, he slams his fists down on his knees and cries, “There’s no W-WAY that would work, are you CRAZY?!”

Soos raises both hands. “Whoa, calm down little dude, I was just saying—“

“That’s th-the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard!” Gideon shrieks.

“Hey. Dude. If you yell at him like that again, I will kick you out of this car,” Wendy growls, shooting Gideon a dark glare in the rearview mirror. Gideon somehow manages to get even paler than he already was. 

“Wait just a second, how could we ever hope to make somethin’ powerful enough?” Fiddleford says, disappointed skepticism leaking into his tone.

“What are you talking about? You’re Old Man McGucket! You’re the absolute best at that kind of thing!” Mabel protests.

“Mabel, if the Shacktron wasn’t enough, I don’t think anything I can make will be.”

“Yeah, but he was way bigger then,” Soos points out, “He’s a whole lot weaker now.”

“What makes you so sure of that?!” Gideon yells, “You’re just makin’ stuff up!”

“Gideon, what did I just tell you?” Wendy hisses. Gideon yips and slaps his chubby hands over his mouth. 

“I vote we throw him out,” Dipper mutters.

“Hey, hey, back on topic,” Mabel says firmly, giving her brother a quick scolding look. “I think Soos is right! I bet Bill is weaker now than he was before. Just look at how much smaller he is! Grunkle Ford, what do you think?”

Suddenly, everyone’s eyes are on Ford. His thoughts are still buried under a thick haze. He swallows hard. “I…” he mutters, trying desperately to piece together the conversation that had just gone on around him. Why couldn’t he think through it? Surely it wasn’t anything he wouldn’t be able to follow. He grits his teeth frustratedly and grips Stan’s hand even tighter.

Stan watches his struggling worriedly, then looks towards the others and jumps in for him. “Yeah, he’s definitely in rough shape.” He mutters under his breath, “Serves him right, that fucking bastard…”

“Grunkle Stan! Language!” Mabel scolds.

“What, what?! I was bein’ quiet!” Stan protests. Then he waves it off with the hand not being crushed by his brother. “Whatever, moving on. He doesn’t want us to know it, especially not when he’s swaggering around and showing off, trying to freak us out.” Stan smirks bitterly to hide the shudder that runs down his spine. “But he told me himself: he’s a glass of water and when we smashed him, the pieces didn’t vanish or something. It was some stupid metaphor. I bet he thinks I forgot.” He barks out a laugh that sounds only a little forced. “Well joke’s on him, because I didn’t.”

“So… does that mean we’re gonna try?” Dipper asks hesitantly. 

Stan looks around at all the others in the car. Dipper, twitching from the lingering effects of the jolt. Mabel, cradling her injured hand. Wendy, powering through the blow to her head. Fiddleford and Gideon and Soos, trucking along despite everything… Stan makes accidental eye contact with Soos, and the peculiar man child flashes a genuine smile at him. Stan feels a reciprocal grin tug at his lips.

“Anyone got a better idea?” he challenges, “Because I’ve gotta say, Soos’s sounds just my style.”

“Think you can do it, Fiddleford?” Soos asks.

Fiddleford wrings his gnarled hands nervously, worrying his lip between his teeth. He glances at Ford, taking in his look of discomfort and his pallor. Then, he turns to Stan. “Yeah, o’ course I can,” he says, as if there had never been a moment’s doubt. 

“Th-This is… this is insane…” Gideon whines softly. “We already did this, it didn’t work…”

“Nothing we did before worked, Gideon,” Wendy says coldly, “But we tried it all anyway. Why do you only have a problem with THIS?”

“Because if it doesn’t work, w-we’ll all be dead! Am I the only one who gets that?!”

“Shut up, Gideon,” Dipper says, his voice strained from a wave of pain that had rolled over him. “You’re in the best shape of anyone here.” He sits up a bit straighter, grimacing.

“Dipper, hold still,” Mabel says worriedly, starting to crawl back across the cramped backseat to reach him. The car bounces, and Stan grabs her before she can be chucked forward again.

“I’m fine, Mabel,” Dipper bites out. He glares at Gideon. “Look, I get that you’re scared of Bill. We’re all scared of Bill, you know. But we’ve gotta do something because we’re the only ones who stand a chance of fixing this! And if we can’t, then EVERYONE will be dead, not just us!”

“Kid, don’t strain yourself,” Stan says quickly. “Let’s get to the Mystery Shack before we start into any fighting, alright?”

Another horrible crashing sound comes from somewhere behind them. Then another one, closer to them. And another.

“Wendy…” Mabel says softly.

“I know, I know,” she says, clenching her jaw tightly and pressing down harder on the gas. The car tires kick up clumps of dirt behind them as it speeds forward. 

“Does… does anyone else smell that…?” Ford asks softly. Stan looks at him with surprise which quickly morphs into worry.

“Smell what, Sixer?” Stan asks hesitantly, searching his mind for the list of warnings a doctor had prattled off to him an eternity ago. 

“I’m not sure…” Ford leans forward in his seat a little, squinting out the windshield. “I think it’s… smoke.”

“I-I smell it too,” Fiddleford pipes in, “Wasn’t sure if it was for real though.”

Wendy glances up to the rearview mirror, then swears. “Guys, it’s for real,” she says, her voice thick with the fear that she had been ignoring up until now. She forces the gas pedal down even harder, the car lurching before speeding up.

Ford twists around gingerly to look out the back window. Thick, billowing pillars of smoke are rising out of the woods not far behind them.

“Damn it!” Stan gasps, grabbing the back of Soos’s seat. “Wendy, is this as fast as this thing’ll go?!”

“Think so!” she says tensely. Her grip on the wheel is so tight that her knuckles are trembling slightly.

“He figured out what we were thinkin’,” Stan says darkly, digging his nails into the cushion of the car seat. “He’s tryna smoke us out of here.”

“Mr Pines, it’s not gonna burn down the shack, is it?” Soos asks worriedly. 

“Will that unicorn spell work on fire?!” Gideon cries. Ford shares a glance with Fiddleford. They both shake their heads.

“What’re we gonna do?!” Mabel cries.

“We’re gonna get there before the fire does, then we’re gonna figure out what to do from there,” Wendy declares.

“Can we build anything that fast?!” Dipper asks, looking at Fiddleford with wide eyes.

“I… I…” Fiddleford swallows hard. “You know, if you asked me a week ago, I’d tell ya you’re nuts. But Stanford and I built a gun it took him decades to figure out in a few hours. I’m gonna bet that if the two of us can work together, we’ll get somethin’ together in a jiffy.” He smiles up at his friend.

His friend goes slack, emitting a low moan from somewhere deep in his chest. His grip on Stan’s hand loosens.

Stan grabs it back immediately, squeezing tight. He wouldn’t leave his brother to ride it out alone a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: school is tiring and wrought with disaster. Wowie. On one hand I wish I could work on this more, but at the same time, we're growing very close to the end now, and that. is strange. v strange indeed.  
> As always, thank you all so so much for reading.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay. I'm very sorry this has taken so long, but I have been agonizing over it for essentially this entire period: writing, rewriting, scrapping plans, redrafting. It's taken a long time, but... I think it's what it needs to be. I hope you feel the same way.
> 
> (i'm also testing a new way of stylizing Bill's dialogue, which is why it's different here. If it works for people, I'll go through the fic and update all of it; if not, I'll fix this one up! Hopefully it won't be too distracting if the latter is the case aaa)

It’s to a flurry of voices that Ford comes swimming back into hazy awareness. He doesn’t move at first, then he moves only slightly, twitching each of his fingers in turn. Then the toes. All functioning. He lets himself breathe out a tiny sigh of relief.

There’s a lot of noise bustling around him. Enthusiastic conversation, ringing forth from seemingly every direction. They don’t seem particularly concerned about waking him. Rather rude.

Ah, but he wasn’t asleep, was he? No, no, he’s quite sure that if he had been, there would be significantly greater care put into keeping him that way. That left very few alternatives…

But all twenty four fingers and toes are operable and accounted for, and when he twitches each side of his mouth, he finds no resistance from his muscles. So it’s nothing to get worked up over.

He lets out another miniscule sigh.

Although it’s coming from all around him, none of the voices sound particularly close to him. As far as his current location goes, that quite solidly rules out the car. He probably shouldn’t have even entertained the notion; there’s no way he would have been able to lie down this comfortably with how cramped it had been.

Comfortable. That’s what he is. He’s comfortable. There’s a light sheet draped over him and a few soft cushions beneath him. He can’t help but notice the extra care that seems to have gone into keeping his head supported and still. It puts a slightly bitter taste into his mouth. Although, he supposes it shouldn’t; it’s well intentioned, and probably even helpful. There’s no stinging gash sliced into the inside of his cheek this time, no thick fog and throbbing pain filling his skull. Despite everything, he feels almost alright.

Aside from the dull pain radiating from the gash up his back, his swollen shoulder, and his highly disagreeable hip, that is. But he has, of course, had much worse.

He’s tempted to sit up, but something tells him not to. He’s not sure where that particular urge came from, but who is he to fight it? Perhaps, if he waits for a little while longer, he will be able to tease some information from the energetic cacophony of voices. 

“Have you seen my screwdriver?!” calls Fiddleford, his voice bouncing up and down in his throat like a deep south yoyo.

“Check the blue toolbox!” Wendy shouts back from the opposite direction. 

“Hey dudes, check this out!” comes Soos’s voice from yet another direction.

“Hey! Get that away from me!” shrieks Gideon. That’s followed up by Dipper’s and Mabel’s jubilant laughter. 

It’s all… shockingly normal. 

Ford searches his mind for what had happened before he slipped out of consciousness. They were all in the car. He had whacked his head against the passenger seat with quite a bit of force. They smelled smoke...

A shudder of horror rockets down his spine. Smoke. There had been a fire. If his very hazy recollection is correct, then it had been a lot of smoke—a BIG fire. A forest fire. What on earth is he doing taking a nap in the middle of a forest fire?!

He sits up. His head spins, and he grunts, pressing a hand to his forehead. 

“Sixer,” says a voice from right beside Ford’s head. Ford jumps out of his skin, scrambling backwards away from it. A pair of large hands grab his wrists immediately. “Whoa there, easy, easy,” says Stan, worry filling his tone and colouring his face. Ford blinks heavily to clear the haze from his eyes. He winces at the fresh view of Stan’s colourful array of bruises. At least the gashes have been bandaged. 

“Stanley…” Ford mumbles, his voice hoarse. “What the hell happened…? Where am I, what’s going on…?”

“We’re in the shack,” Stan says. His tone is quite guardedly soft, as if he were speaking to a wild animal. Ford frowns. “That unicorn hair thing should still be working, according to McGucket. So we’re safe for now.”

“Stanley, there is no need for such guarded tones…” Ford huffs, “I’m not exactly about to attack you…”

“Ford, c’mon…” Stan mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying to keep you okay, don’t give me a hard time about it.”

“I’m fine.”

Stan sets his jaw. “Don’t give me that shit, we both know you’re not fine.”

Ford returns his brother’s cold look. “I believe it is my right to determine my own state of being.”

“Yeah, well, you lost that right when you quit sleeping for a week and caused the first one of these,” Stan snaps. An awkward pause follows his small outburst. They both know why that had happened, and it certainly wasn’t for the entertainment value. Stan wilts. “Sorry…”

Ford worries his lip between his teeth. “It’s fine…” he says as softly as his rough voice will allow. “So we’re in the shack.” He looks around. He’s on the couch in the living room, but it looks like the room has been gutted; the TV is gone, as are most pieces of furniture. Pictures, books, most decorative pieces, all removed; it’s just Stan, Ford, and the couch (and some lingering bits and pieces scattered about). “What happened in here?”

“They’re grabbin’ up anything they can get their hands on,” Stan says, looking towards the doorway. “Did all the yelling wake you up?”

“I suppose so,” Ford sighs. “That doesn’t really answer the question, Stanley.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting to it. They’re building weapons.”

Ford’s brows knit together. “Building weapons? Out of furniture and electronics?”

Stan nods. “It was Soos’s idea.”

“And what exactly do you think it will accomplish?”

“He’s got a ‘physical form’, yeah? Well if you beat the snot out of a ‘physical form’ enough, it gives up eventually,” Stan says, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “We figured since all your smart guy tactics weren’t doin’ us much good, we should try the dumb way.”

Stan wasn’t sure how Ford might react to having the plan spelled out to him, but the look of abject horror that comes over his brother’s face wasn’t on the list of options. “What are you talking about? You’ve tried that before! Did you just forget about the giant robot you all made out of the shack?!” Ford cries.

Stan grimaces. “Poindexter, watch it, would you? There’re a couple people here who don’t like thinkin’ about how much we forget.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking away from Ford. “I get it if you wanna yell at me about it, but just watch it, alright? The other guy doesn’t deserve that coming up by mistake.”

“Stanley, I’m sorry. Neither do you,” Ford says softly but with conviction, beating down a wave of revulsion at his own carelessness. There would be time to fixate on that later. “I’m just concerned. We’ve tried this before, and it didn’t work.”

“I know that,” Stan says, running a hand through his hair. “I called it the dumb way for a reason.” He laughs tensely. “But it’s all we’ve got now, and I’m not ready to roll over and give up yet. Neither are they.” He gestures in all directions, referring to the chorus of conversation still going on around them, punctuated by the squeals of saws, the growls of drills, and the clangs of hammers. “And hey, it makes at least a little sense, don’t you think? It’s just a weird body he’s in.”

Ford swallows. “It’s not that simple.”

Stan laughs again. “You kidding? Course it’s not! Nothing’s simple for us.”

Ford smiles in spite of himself, but it’s tinged with bitterness. “Right you are…”

There’s a loud crash somewhere nearby. A moment of quiet follows, then Mabel calls, “It’s okay, nothing happened!” Stan snorts. 

“What sort of weapons are they trying to build?” Ford asks. 

“Whatever McGucket could think up and explain to them. Guns and robot arms and stuff.”

Ford taps his fingers against his thigh. “I don’t think that sort of thing will work…” he mutters, “You need a certain type of projectile…”

“Says who?” Stan asks.

“Ah… Someone I met in another dimension,” Ford says awkwardly. That is not a subject Stan needs to hear about in detail. 

“While you were gone?” Ford nods. Stan scoffs and waves it off. “Well then, that was about weird, not-physical-form Bill, wasn’t it?”

Ford blinks. “Y… Yes, I suppose that’s true…”

“Then as far as we know, you can use any old thing,” Stan says, his tone leaving no room for argument. Ford decides to make an attempt anyway.

“Except for the fact that you’ve tried this before,” he reminds.

“They weren’t exactly aiming to kill before. We still had the Zodiac up our sleeve, remember? They were just a diversion.”

“They ripped his eyeball out.”

“Hey, wouldn’t you if you had the chance?”

Now that was a point Ford had no need to argue with. 

Another massive crash shakes the building, this one loud enough to make both men cringe. There’s a slightly longer pause before Wendy shouts, “This one works pretty well!”

“They’re testing weapons indoors?” Ford asks bemusedly, wincing when his head throbs from that loud noise. 

Stan shrugs, subtly rubbing his own skull. “‘S not like it’s safer for them to do it outside. The shack’s… probably not gonna make it past today anyway.”

Ford blinks. “What makes you say that? The unicorn spell is still in place.”

“You both said it won’t stop fire.” 

Ford chews his lip thoughtfully. “Perhaps we could contact some specialists in forest fires…”

“Do you really think now’s the time for that, Poindexter? There’s a god damn vengeful demon parading around, setting fire to everything he can point at.” 

“Are you willing to sacrifice the shack?” 

Stan furrows his brow. “Why do you think I wouldn’t be? What kinda priorities do you think I have?”

Ford blinks and sighs, dragging his hand through his hair. “There are just… a lot of memories here.”

Stan raises a brow. “You think I don’t know that?”

Ford worries his lip between his teeth. The topic of memory was one he was clearly doing no justice. Best he steer clear of it sooner rather than later. 

“Poindexter, believe me, I get that throwin all this stuff away is kinda rough to wrap your head around. But it doesn’t matter. We’re stickin’ around as long as we can for the protection spell, but once the fire gets too close, we’ll have to book it out of here,” he says gruffly. “A lot of the memories here weren’t good ones anyway,” he adds under his breath.

Ford nods. “Yes, I agree.” He puffs out a quiet breath. 

Into the living room bursts Mabel, wielding her grappling hook in the pose of an action movie star. Both men jump, but recover from the surprise quickly. “Grunkle Ford!” Mabel chirps loudly, “You’re awake!”

That announcement draws the attention of a few others, and soon the room is crowded with people, all of whom are carrying around ramshackle weapons assembled from whatever they could get their hands on. By the looks of it, if Ford were to make his way down to the basement lab, he would find very few gadgets remaining. 

“Are you okay?” Dipper asks. His movements are slightly stiff, a little calculated, as if he is trying to avoid aggravating an injury. 

“I might ask you the same thing, my boy,” Ford replies, fixing a worried look on his nephew. Dipper waves off the concern.

“I’m fine, really, it’s just a burn,” he says dismissively.

“We bandaged him up real good, Dr Pines,” Soos supplies cheerfully. He holds what looks like a giant boxing glove on a chain, like a mace. It seems likely that it was responsible for a large number of those crashing noises from a few minutes ago. “Little dude’s back in action now!”

“So have you finished those weapons up then?” Stan asks, folding his arms over his chest. Fiddleford bounces back and forth in place, nodding vehemently. 

“I figured out some things that’d work fer everyone!” he exclaims, “It was sure a lotta fun makin som’a this stuff, I’ll tell ya!”

Wendy grins. “It’s really cool, Mr Pines.”

Stan gestures impatiently. “Well hurry up and tell me what you’ve got already.”

Mabel brandishes her grappling hook in the hand not hindered by a splint, showing off the much larger than usual barb on the end. It’s lined with spikes, making it look quite brutal. “Grappling hook!” she cries delightedly.

“It’s kinda like my glove on a stick!” Soos says, showing off the mace proudly. “Except mine doesn’t grab onto stuff. Kinda funny though, since mine’s got a glove on it. You’d think it’d be the thing that does the grabbing.”

“He made me a pair of robot gauntlets, and a GIANT axe,” Wendy butts in, “They’re on the front porch. The axe is so big that it can’t even fit through the door!” Her eyes glow with excitement.

“I could use a pair of gauntlets,” Stan says with a low, admiring whistle. 

“Figured you’d say that!” Fiddleford says, bounding out of the room. He returns a moment later with what looks like a couple of massive, metal gloves cradled in his scrawny arms. He drops them at Stan’s feet with a loud clang, making everyone present (except for Soos) jump. After recovering from the surprise, Stan runs his thick fingers over the surfaces admiringly.

“Wow, these look incredibly dangerous,” he says. Then, he stuffs his hand into one, grinning wildly as the robotic mechanisms within it fire up. He waggles the fingers, then makes a fist, the metal clinking with every movement. “Just the way I like ‘em!”

“Stanford, I just took a coupla guns from yer stuff and amped ‘em up,” Fiddleford explains, while Wendy passes Ford’s gunbelt over to him. “Figured they probably didn’t need too much improvement.”

Ford nods, gingerly looping the belt around his waist. It’s awkward to do while seated, but he has a distinct feeling that he shouldn’t stand until it becomes necessary to do so. His hip throbs under the new weight of the gun settled over it.

“I got a gun too,” Dipper says with a grin, “It shoots bolts of electricity.” Not blind to the apparent irony, he adds, “It’s like revenge!” Wendy laughs and claps him on the shoulder.

“And what about him?” Ford asks, nodding towards Gideon, who had been lingering slightly apart from the rest of the group. 

“I repurposed your crossbow!” Fiddleford explains before Gideon can speak up, “He didn’t wanna get too physical himself, so I made the bolts much bigger and harder!” The old man laughs. 

“This ain’t gonna work, it ain’t gonna work,” Gideon whines, his chubby fingers grasping at his hair nervously. 

“If it doesn’t then you can say ‘I told ya so,’ now can it,” Stan snaps.

“Stanley, please, he might be annoying, but he is only a child,” Ford scolds lightly. 

“Don’t ya wanna hear what I made for myself?!” Fiddleford yells indignantly.

“Yes, of course, so sorry that we didn’t think to ask,” Ford says, turning his attention back to his friend. “What did you make for yourself?”

“A ROBOT FIGHTING SUIT!” he cries, again laughing with delight as he runs from the room. A moment later, he bursts back in from inside of what resembles an oversized, robotic exoskeleton, big enough to fit at least four or five copies of himself. “Its punches feel like getting hit by a train!”

“Fiddleford, you never cease to amaze me,” Ford says, shaking his head with a grin.

From somewhere outside of the building, they hear a loud crash. The air of excitement vanishes instantly, and Gideon hurries to a window. “S-smoke’s gettin’ closer,” he squeaks.

“They keep getting nearer to here…” Stan mutters, getting to his feet. “We don’t have much time left. Everyone, start getting ready.”

“How long do you think we have?” Dipper asks, “Those crashes have been getting closer for a an hour now…”

“Yeah, and that one was a LOT closer,” Wendy says grimly, “I bet he’ll be here in a few more minutes.”

“Minutes?!” Gideon squawks.

Stan gets to his feet, sways a little bit, grasps the couch arm, and exhales with a puff, a grim look on his face. “We need to get ready.”

“Let’s rip that triangle a new one,” Wendy says with a devilish grin, quickly hurrying from the room with Gideon on her heel. 

“Are you going to be okay, Mr and Dr Pines?” Soos asks, looking over the two old men worriedly. “Because I think this is gonna be a pretty rough fight.”

Stan grits his teeth and nods. “Oh yeah, we’re gonna be okay. No way we’re sittin’ on the sidelines for this.”

“Are ya sure though?” Fiddleford chimes in, “Neither of ya are lookin’ particularly stellar…”

“Please,” Ford scoffs, “This is nothing at all.”

“You had a seizure and haven’t gotten up from that spot since,” Fiddleford points out gently.

“If you guys are too hurt to join in, then you should just—” Mabel starts to say, but Ford cuts her off.

“No. I can’t—” He pauses and clears his throat. “We can’t allow that. It’s far too dangerous.”

“What are you talking about?! It’s far too dangerous for you guys to fight when you’re hurt like this!” she protests.

“It’s too dangerous whether we are injured or not.”

“Sweetie, it pains me to say it, but he’s right. This is a crazy plan no matter who’s carrying it out. We could be in perfect health and thirty years younger and it would still be crazy,” Stan says, sighing. 

“I just… don’t want you to get more hurt,” she says softly. Dipper touches her arm, then reciprocates when she pulls him into a hug.

“Kids, we don’t want you to get hurt either. We don’t want ANYONE to get hurt,” Stan says, gesturing around himself.

“Thanks for including me, Mr Pines,” Soos chirps, a big smile breaking out across his face.

“Don’t mention it, Soos.” Stan clears his throat, then continues his speech. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt. But at this point, maybe we oughta just focus on getting out of this in one piece. We need everyone involved if we’re gonna stand even a fraction of a chance.”

“GUYS!” yells Wendy from outside, and everyone jumps. 

“Th-that’s the cue!” Fiddleford yelps, scampering into the hallway. The others follow.

“GUYS, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR—?!” Her second shout is cut short by a sharp squeal. 

“Wendy!” Dipper shouts, running out the door with his bulky gun in hand.

“Dipper, wait up!” Mabel darts after him.

“Are you gonna teach Mr and Dr Pines how to use those things?” Soos asks.

“No time!” the frazzled engineer squeaks, rushing outside as well.

“Soos, you don’t gotta teach a man how to use a gun or wear gloves,” Stan replies, giving Soos a sharp shove towards the door. Once he’s out of earshot, Stan turns to Ford. “You sure you’re okay to do this?”

“That’s a real change of tune from a moment ago, Stanley,” Ford grumbles, limping towards the door. A hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Hey, Sixer.”

“We don’t have time—”

“I love you. Don’t get killed,” Stan says quickly. Then, he brushes past Ford. He checks over his shoulder in the doorway, and upon seeing his startled brother staring after him motionlessly, barks, “What’re you waitin’ for? We don’t have all day!” That snaps him back into action, and the two join the others outside.

The smell of smoke is incredibly strong, and it bowls both Stan and Ford over in coughs. The kids are still recovering from it. It’s hot, incredibly hot, the air thick and oppressive from heat. 

“Wendy, what was that scream?” Stan asks quickly, looking his former employee over. She snorts, twirling her bulky axe in her robotically enhanced hands. 

“That wasn’t me, that was him,” she says, jerking her head towards Gideon. 

“I-I could’ve… I could’ve SWORN I h-h-heard him!” the white haired child squeaks, his chest heaving with his rapid breaths. 

“Please, calm down,” Ford says firmly, “You cannot let him get to you so easily.”

“B-but I—”

“I know it’s easy to do, but you have to try. You need to be thinking clearly for this.” Ford looks around at all of the others, then exhales slowly. He puffs out his chest, injects a hearty dose of falsified confidence into his voice, and says, “This plan is… well, let’s say reckless. Boorish. Ridiculous, misguided, unimagineably—”

“STIRRING WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT THERE, SIXER!” 

Ford’s blood runs cold, and he grips his gun tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Gideon yelps in an instant panic, scrambling backwards until his back is flush against the outside wall of the shack. Dipper and Mabel press together. Wendy grips her ax tighter, Fiddleford looks around in a panic, and Soos chews his lip. Stan grits his teeth, shivers, and steps closer to Ford.

The laugh is so loud that it seems to shake the ground. “AFTER A SPEECH LIKE THAT, I’M REALLY QUAKING IN MY BOOTS HERE!”

Ford had expected fear, but instead, it’s anger that makes up the heavy pit in his stomach. “Show yourself!” he yells, “Don’t waste our time toying with us like this!”

“WHAT, YOU IN A RUSH TO GET SOMEWHERE, IQ?” 

“What are you doing?!” Stan hisses.

“Yeah, I’m in a rush to get a bullet lodged between your bricks!” Ford spits.

“OH COME ON, THAT WAS WEAK,” Bill scoffs, and he rises out of the trees. His triangular form hangs in the air like a misshapen sun. Everyone tenses, taking a step back. He laughs again. “WHAT EXACTLY HAVE YOU GOT GOING ON HERE? SOME KINDA DRESS UP SESSION?” He drifts closer to the shack and the group clustered in front of it, his eye crinkling with an implied grin. His hands rest on his sides. “YOU DON’T REALLY THINK THOSE THINGS WILL WORK, DO YOU?”

“Why wouldn’t they?!” Dipper pipes up, pointing his gun at Bill. “You’re in a body, aren’t you?!”

“OH COME ON, PINE TREE! USE THAT ABNORMALLY LARGE HEAD OF YOURS! I’M A CREATURE INCOMPREHENSIBLE TO YOUR PUNY MINDS! YOU CAN’T JUST PUNCH ME TO DEATH!”

“Oh yeah we can!” Wendy yells with a grin, pointing at Stan, “He did it himself! Remember, when they tricked you?!”

Bill misses a single beat before he retorts, “OH YEAH, ICE BAG, RIGHT? EXCUSE ME IF I DIDN’T RECOGNIZE YOU AT FIRST, YOU WERE A LITTLE HUNG UP WHEN WE LAST MET!” He cackles. “BESIDES, STANLEY HERE DIDN’T _KILL_ ME! HE ONLY—”

“Yadda yadda ‘broken glass’ we get it,” Stan interrupts, folding his arms over his chest. “Do ya ever say anything new, or do you just repeat old tricks forever?”

“THOSE ARE PRETTY BOLD WORDS FROM A GUY WITH ONLY HALF A FACE!” Bill swaggers closer, and everyone shrinks back a little further. “SPEAKING OF WHICH, I SHOULD CONGRATULATE YOU ON THAT HIT, SIXER! IT WAS ONE HELL OF A CLEAN BLOW!” 

Ford grits his teeth and grips his gun a little tighter. No time for that problem, not right now. “We’re within the protective spell, Bill! You can’t touch us!”

Bill reaches out and taps on the bubble of energy surrounding the shack with an inky black finger. He scoffs. “MAYBE NOT NOW,” he says, shrugging, “BUT THAT BARRIER ISN’T GOING TO STOP A FOREST FIRE.” He snaps his fingers and billowing smoke begins to rise from the trees right beside the shack. Stan swears. “SO IF I WERE YOU, I WOULDN’T BE STICKING AROUND FOR LONG!”

“We have to run, now!” Wendy cries, grabbing Soos’s arm.

“What?!” Dipper yelps, “But he’s right there—”

At that moment, Gideon unleashes a piercing wail, and a loud snap fills the air. Bill screeches, recoiling and covering his eye with both hands. Green fluid leaks from between his fingers. 

“Nice SHOT, kid!” Stan woops.

“RUN, RUN NOW!” Wendy screams, tearing off into the burning trees. 

She ducks under the burning branches and into a section of wood not yet ablaze, dragging Soos along the same path. The kids and Fiddleford are right on her heels, and the old men lag only a small distance behind, Ford limping as quickly as his shaking legs will carry him and Stan remaining glued to his side. Bill’s screeching turns to a loud, aggravated growl.

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING TO RUN?!” Bill yells. A large ball of fire erupts directly in front of the group. Inertia has Wendy toppling forward when she attempts to stop too rapidly.

“Wendy!” Dipper cries. Soos grabs her arm and drags her back to her feet.

“Are you alright?!” he asks.

“I’m fine, now keep moving! There’s no time for this!” Her voice is strained. 

“This way!” Mabel points in the only remaining direction not yet on fire, and the group rushes forward yet again.

“YOU AREN’T GOING TO ESCAPE!” 

“He’s right,” Ford says.

“What?! You don’t get to give up that fast!” Stan balks.

“I didn’t say that.”

“He means we gotta fight him,” Fiddleford pipes in. They haven’t stopped moving, but the others are looking back to keep an eye on the older members of the group.

“Not out here, we can’t!”

“We just need a clearing! Right, Mr Pines?” Soos offers.

“Then we’d be putting ourselves out into the open!”

“Better than getting crushed by a tree or burned alive!” Wendy points out. Her clothes are singed. Everyone is coughing, everyone is beginning to show signs of fatigue. 

“We have to do it right now, or we won’t be able to do anything at all. There’s no time to search for a better vantage point,” Ford insists.

“What are we going to do?” Gideon squeaks.

“We’re fighting,” Wendy says, gripping her massive ax in both hands.

“Oh lord oh lord we’re all gonna die!” he sobs.

“Cut the melodrama already, kid! Either we go down annoying the shit out of him or we go down and let him have the last laugh, and I know which way I’d rather go,” Stan yells, clenching his metallic hands into fists. 

“So what you’re saying, Mr Pines, is that we’re definitely going to die, but we should try to be as annoying as possible on the way?” Soos chirps.

“You got it, Soos.”

“Yyyes!” Soos says, pumping his fist.

“Everyone, conceal yourselves!” Ford hisses, ducking behind a thick tree trunk and gripping his gun in both hands.

“How is that going to stop him?” Dipper asks, scurrying behind one despite his uncertainty.

“It won’t,” Ford replies, lowering his voice as much as he can without becoming inaudible. “But it will slow him down, and it will definitely irritate him. Don’t group too close together; the whole point is to throw him off—” 

“YOU FLESHBAGS HAVE ANOTHER THING COMING IF YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME!” The yell seems to come from every direction, but the unmistakable sound of a body crashing through the branches pinpoints his location quite precisely. “I KNOW YOU’RE HERE! THOSE LITTLE STUB LEGS WON’T TAKE YOU FAR IN A FIRE LIKE THIS!” Ford peeks very carefully around the trunk of his tree, watching Bill make his way into the ring of hidden fighters. 

“You should talk about stub legs!” Wendy shouts from a few metres away, “Yours are the stubbiest I’ve ever seen!”

The demon turns towards the sound of her voice, leering at her. “OH YEAH, ICE BAG?”

“Hey, yeah, they are!” Soos chuckles in agreement. Bill whips away from Wendy, swaggering towards the other voice. His movements are hindered by the odd clustering of the trees, and the increasingly hazy air surrounding them. 

“YOU IDIOTS ARE REALLY PUSHING YOUR LUCK,” he growls, and then he yelps when a large, barbed hook hits him in the back. His triangular body is tossed against a tree, more green fluid oozing from the resulting gash.

“Grappling hook!” Mabel whoops. 

“SHOOTING STAR, THAT WAS A BAD MOVE!” Bill laughs. He follows the line attached to the hook as his body regenerates, closing the wounds. 

He doesn’t make it far before a familiar, loud snapping sound fills the air. Another bolt from Gideon’s crossbow embeds itself in Bill’s side. He screeches like a stuck pig. His little black hands shoot towards it, hoping to pull it out—before they make it, however, a brilliant flash of electric blue light cuts through the reddened air, and Bill shrieks again. Scattered and separated from each other as they are, Ford, Dipper, and Gideon all flinch at the sound and smell of burning flesh. 

“Keep going!” Wendy commands, dashing out from behind her tree. Still startled and twitching from the electricity, Bill doesn’t notice her in time to prevent her massive axe from embedding itself in between his bricks. She cheers and immediately ducks behind another tree, once again out of sight. 

“That was incredible!” Dipper gasps before he can stop himself. 

“STOP!” Bill screams, ripping the axe out of his body. A gush of green follows it. “YOU DISGUSTING MEAT SACKS CAN’T—”

“Dude, why would we stop?” Soos asks cheerfully as he too jogs towards the injured triangle. “You’re kind of the worst!” He winds up and swings the mace down. The resulting smack knocks Bill’s fleshy hat clean off, and he screeches. 

Soos turns to make his escape as Wendy had, but a black claw digs into his calf. He yelps, falling forward as Bill drags him back. 

“Soos!” Stan cries, charging out from behind his tree and barrelling towards Bill. A burst of flame at his feet has him stumbling back instinctively, and with a terrible sense of deja vu, he falls. 

“DON’T EVEN TRY IT, STANLEY!” Bill laughs. The wounds he had sustained are slowly starting to close back up. He lifts Soos up by the leg and shakes him. 

In a flash so quick that it was barely visible, Fiddleford bursts straight through the trunk of his tree and dashes towards Bill. With the help of his robotic suit, he rips Soos from Bill’s grasp and throws the triangle down to the ground. He lands in his own fireball and leaps away from it. While he runs back out of sight, Fiddleford stuffs Soos into a compartment in his large suit. 

“NO NO NO NO NO!” Bill screams, “THIS ISN’T HOW THIS GOES!”

He snaps his fingers and the small fire he had started swells in size. It grabs onto the brush around him, and in mere moments, swallows up the trees they had been hiding behind. They all scramble away, scattering like startled ants. 

“YOU AREN’T GOING TO BEAT ME AGAIN!” His voice is deep, low, booming—the ground seems to tremble from its force. “THIS IS MY REVENGE AGAINST YOU WORTHLESS PESTS! I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU RUIN IT!”

Stan sticks with Ford as they make their escape. It’s impossible to see where the others went through the smoke and the haze. Fiddleford, Wendy, the kids—they have no idea where any of them have gone. There’s nowhere to run anymore. Begrudgingly, the twins drop to the ground behind a small ledge, searching for more easily breathable air.

“Damn it, damn it damn it DAMN IT,” Stan hisses, slamming his giant gauntlets against the earth. “It was going so WELL!” He hits the ground again. 

Ford grips his gun in both of his shaking hands, staring down at it. “I should have fired, I should have fired,” he bemoans himself, letting go of the gun to drag one trembling hand through his singed hair. “Why didn’t I fire?!”

“It all happened so fast, and you didn’t wanna hit anyone,” Stan huffs, yanking off his red toque. “I didn’t hit him. I should’ve hit him. I should’ve done something sooner.”

Ford’s attention is caught by the red knit hat in Stan’s hand. He had grown so accustomed to seeing Stan with it on. It hadn’t even occurred to him that it was rather ridiculous to wear the thing in a firestorm. In spite of everything, he chuckles softly. 

“What?”

“You were still wearing that hat,” Ford says.

“So what? I just got used to it, didn’t realize I had it on. Why the hell do you care about that right now?”

“It’s just… funny, I suppose,” Ford mumbles, his smile fading. 

The loud sound of a tree falling makes them both jump. The impact kicks a sudden burst of dust, soot, and sparks into the air around them. It rains down onto their backs. Despite the awful, oppressive, unbearable heat, they shiver. Terrible sounds surround them: Bill’s threats, the others’ screams, the ever increasing roar of fire. 

Stan pulls off one of his gauntlets and reaches for his brother’s hand. Ford grasps his in return. 

“I think I have a plan,” Stan says quietly, giving Ford’s hand a squeeze. “And it’s just as stupid as this one was.”

“So this was your plan, was it Stanley…?” Ford mumbles. Stan shoots him a look.

“I would swat you if this thing wouldn’t cave your skull in. It was Soos’s,” he grunts. Ford snorts. Stan squeezes his hand harder, even giving it a light yank. “Listen to me, actually listen.” 

Ford looks at him through his broken glasses. “Alright, I’m listening. What’s your plan?”

“I’m going to go face him myself—”

Ford cuts him off immediately. “We’re not doing that again. Whatever you do, I’m going with you.”

“I’m not gonna let you get killed, Sixer!”

“I’m not about to let YOU get killed AGAIN!” It came out too loud, and Ford flinches at the sound of his own raspy voice. They’re quiet for a moment, waiting to see if Bill had heard. When there’s no sign of his approach, Ford adds, “It’s me he’s after, did you forget that?!”

“Are you that bull-headed?! He’s after all of us!”

“He has always held a specific grudge against ME.”

“And now he has one against me too for killing him the first time!” Stan shouts. He grimaces and lowers his voice, leaning closer to Ford. “Look. You didn’t have him in your head for a year.” He pauses, then amends his remark when Ford fixes him a deadly look. “I mean this past year, give me a break. All I’m saying is that I KNOW he has it out for me too.”

Ford grits his teeth. A long moment passes, letting them hear Bill’s rampaging tantrum unhindered once again. “What was the rest of your plan?” he asks, his voice tense. 

“I go face him myself, and I stall him. When Fiddleford threw him into the fire, he got burned, and Dipper burned him too. If I can keep him busy long enough, then I think we can take him out with his own fire.” 

Ford is silent, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then, he lets out a low, shaky sigh. “Alright,” he mutters. He tightens his grip on Stan’s hand, keeping him from getting to his feet. “But we go together.”

Stan wants to protest. He desperately wants to protest. A lifetime of defending his brother screams at him to refuse, to insist Ford stay behind. But as he meets Ford’s solid, resolute gaze, and feels the tremor-less grip on his hand… Telling him no won’t do any good, that much is obvious. Stan grits his teeth. He squeezes Ford’s hand in return, carefully pulls him into a hug, and holds him tightly. 

“Fine,” he whispers, “Fine. Fine…” He presses his uninjured cheek against his brother’s, feeling Ford lean into the touch and hug him tighter. They stay like that for a long time, feeling each other’s ragged breaths. When they eventually, begrudgingly pull apart, Stan slaps a grin on his face to hide the awful dread coiling under his skin. “Let’s finish off this triangular bastard for real this time,” he says, standing carefully.

Ford nods, slowly and gingerly getting to his feet with help from his brother. “Together.”

“Yeah. Together.”

They trudge slowly back towards the place they had run from, back into the thick flames. They lean on each other, hands tightly interlaced. They hesitate. They brace themselves. A few quick, raspy breaths are drawn, and then they both scream in unison, “BILL!”

A pause in the tantrum cuts down on the noise, and then the bright yellow monster emerges from the red and black air. “WELL WELL WELL, LOOK WHO DECIDED TO SHOW THEIR FACES AGAIN!” He laughs, and neither twin overlooks the slight edge of raspiness in his voice. The smoke is beginning to wear on him, too. “DON’T THINK YOU CAN PULL THE SAME STUNT TWICE.”

Ford lets go of Stan’s hand to show Bill his own, waggling all six fingers. “Not trying to,” he coughs. Bill laughs harder. He grabs Ford by the front of his sweater, dragging a startled yelp from the man as he drags him into the air. He grasps at the hand, scrabbling at the claws holding him up.

“Let GO of him!” Stan yells. He dashes forward and takes a swing at Bill with his remaining gauntlet. He bashes Bill’s leg, earning himself a sharp kick to his bruised face. He doesn’t scream, instead gasping hard as he’s thrown backwards. He hits the ground with a loud thump, cradling his face in his hand and curling up on his side.

“Stanley!” Ford squirms violently in Bill’s grip, ignoring the pain igniting across his body as he irritates injury after injury. Bill cackles.

“YOU’RE PATHETIC, DID YOU KNOW THAT, IQ? SQUIRMING LIKE AN INSECT!” Bill gloats. He shakes Ford hard, just for the pleasure of watching him flop. “I SHOULD PROBABLY BE GRATEFUL TO YOU, SIXER! WITHOUT YOUR HELP, NONE OF THIS WOULD’VE BEEN POSSIBLE!” He stops shaking the man, laughing with glee at the sight of his dizzied face. “BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? I’M TIRED OF GIVING YOU CHANCES TO GET IN ON THE RIGHT SIDE HERE.” 

Bill drops him. The hard impact knocks the air from Ford’s lungs. He wheezes for air, his throat aching from the smoke that comes forth. 

“AND YOU!” Bill growls, turning on Stan. “YOU… I’M GONNA MAKE YOU PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID, YOU WORTHLESS SACK OF FLESH!”

He raises a fist to throw another fireball. The flames gather around his jet black hand. Before he can throw it, a bolt of red energy hits his tiny, black wrist, the resulting flash lost amid the fiery light surrounding them. Bill shrieks—in frustration as much as pain. Ford shoots again as he scrabbles back towards Stan, but a cough throws off his haphazard aim. The blast only grazes the side of the triangle.

“I’VE HAD IT WITH YOUR GAMES!” Bill screams, bearing down on them despite the repeated blasts from Ford’s gun peppering his body. He seems to swell in size, turning jet black and sprouting several extra sets of limbs. Ford grabs Stan’s hand. A tiny growl rumbles in Stan’s chest. The monster bears down on them, opening a giant, sharp toothed maw. Stan nails him in the side with a powerful punch, sending him tumbling backwards through the air. He swells in size once again, filling the space between the gnarled branches of the trees. “ENOUGH!”

Stan grips Ford’s hand in return, leaning closer to him. They cough on the thick smoke that billows through the burning trees, sweat pouring down their bodies from the wretched heat. The fire is growing closer. Not much longer. 

“You don’t scare us, Bill,” Stan spits at him, injecting all his anger into his voice to disguise the wavering. They only need a little longer.

“We’re not going to give up,” Ford adds, glaring directly into the wide, red eye. 

“THIS IS THE END OF THE LINE, YOU WORTHLESS BAG OF GUTS!” Bill screeches, creating another massive fireball in his tiny hands. 

A chilling crack fills the air. It’s followed by a long, slow creak that picks up in pitch and speed. Bill looks towards it too late. He screams.

The giant tree, cracked at the base of the trunk, comes falling fast. It catches Bill, brings him down with it, holds him beneath it. The fireball he had been holding ignites the brush under his form. 

The next several minutes are a moment out of a nightmare. High pitched howls of agony and the unyielding roar of the flame are the only sounds Stan and Ford can hear. It’s overwhelming, it’s too much, it’s sickening. They grip each other tightly, praying to gods they stopped believing in ages ago, begging for the sound to end. 

And after an eternity, a harrowing eternity, it does. 

It’s rather sudden, like someone had flicked a switch. The screaming, silenced. Just like that. Gone. Both twins gasp softly at the comparative quiet. 

The smoke has grown too thick, and they can no longer see the tree that had fallen—or what had been crushed beneath it. But the screams have stopped. Despite the tightness in both of their chests and the pain in their bodies, a massive weight has been lifted from their shoulders. Even as the smoke swallows them, they can breathe again.

It’s over. They press their heads together. Soft, hysteric laughs bubble up from their smoke scorched throats. 

It’s over.

 

 

The fire blazes on, and Stan and Ford lay sprawled amid the blaze. Smoke billows around them, stealing all remaining air. They are no longer conscious, and cannot react with surprise when the robotic form emerges from the burning trees. 

Fiddleford, encased in his thoroughly fire-proofed mechsuit, gathers up the two old men and stuffs them within its passenger compartment. Once assured that they are safely contained, coughing raspily but still breathing, he turns and begins his run back to the emergency vehicle-coated highway he had left the others standing along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much for reading. There's only one more after this, and it'll be more of an epilogue than a direct continuation. It should be out within the next few days. I appreciate your patience with me, and I'm beyond thrilled that you've made it this far. I hope I've managed to satisfy!!! <3


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is it! Thank you for reading this giant fic, whether you just found it today or have been following along since the first chapter went up in February. I appreciate you making it this far, and I hope you've enjoyed it all.

The vessel was quite different when they first got it. It was a promise. A vow that things would be better. The physical manifestation of a relationship repaired, something bright and new despite its age. They had boarded it with uncertainty, their legs wobbling with the light tosses of the deck as it bobbed on the water. And within a month, they were navigating it like old pros, the pitches of the ground beneath them as natural as a cloudy sky. How quickly their boat had become a home—somewhere comfortable. A place that belonged to them. And even after being apart from it for a month or two, it still felt just as much like home as it had before.

A year changes so much. It puts gouges in wood, scuffs in polished surfaces, scars on skin. It demands everything. It takes energy, time, comfort, contentment, and sometimes it takes too much. 

But it didn’t take them. 

Stan sits at the small table in the cabin of the Stan O War II. His old body is creaky, much creakier now than it had been. A few small scars are peppered across his face, and he wears the eyepatch—which had long been another falsified piece of his persona—with legitimacy. There are more scuffs in his polish than there were before. But scuffs don’t stop a ship from sailing.

He’s waiting on the coffee maker, reclined back in a kitchen chair. His good eye is lazily closed. Other men his age might have taken this opportunity to doze off and sneak in a nap. Stan himself might have done that in the past. These days, he prefers not to miss any moments of quiet, comfortable peace. 

It used to make him ill, the rocking of the boat. But now, the gentle, rhythmic motions feel soothing. He relaxes in his chair, focusing on the comforting sways. 

The early days back on the sea were difficult. Both men had practically bickered their way out of the hospital, dismissing their smoke inhalation as a petty concern. In light of everything else that had happened, it genuinely was quite minor. It was the everything else that caused some difficulty. Ford needed a week or two to adjust to balancing with his limp. Stan needed a little bit longer to adjust to having only one usable eye. Both of them are still growing used to a life with a regular regimen of medications. But they’re together, each in one piece.

The shack had not been salvaged, but the fire was brought under control quite quickly. For all of the demon’s aggressiveness, his anger was too precisely pinpointed to lead to a massive, all consuming fire. When Stan and Ford left for the coast, Soos, Melody, and the Corduroys were already working out plans on where to rebuild the attraction, fresh and new. They had blocked off the entrance to the underground laboratory, which was all that remained of the previous location. 

Stan had expected the shack’s loss to hit him hard. Instead, it felt more like a relief. Perhaps, one of these days, he’ll have to sit down and sort out why. Although, then again, some things are better off left alone.

The kids went home happier than Stan or Ford had ever seen them. It confused Ford at first; he had expected them to be in rougher sorts. But Stan understood. Everyone was okay. The injuries would heal. Dipper carried himself with a bit more confidence, seeming proud of the injury he had lived through. Mabel got a bright fuschia cast on her injured hand, and within a week, every available space was crammed with doodles and signatures in every shade of vibrant marker under the sun. 

Fiddleford accompanied Stan and Ford to the docks. His son drove and stayed hidden in the car while Stan haggled with the guy in charge of billing, and Ford had a real, proper conversation with his father. Fiddleford was more lucid than Ford had seen him in a while. Both of the McGuckets helped load the boat with supplies: food, first aid kits, medications, and the collection of haphazardly assembled weaponry Fiddleford had created. The gauntlets sit on top of the refrigerator, ready for the moment Stan finally makes good on his promise to take out a sea monster with just his fists. 

Stan didn’t bother to find out what happened to the others, but Dipper and Mabel made sure to drop plenty of hints. While his brother didn’t particularly care, Ford was glad to hear that Gideon was doing well. The other two as well, whatever their names were. Ford could never remember. 

The coffee maker beeps, and Stan opens his eye. He straightens up, stretches, yawns, scratches his ass. He pours out two mugs’ worth of coffee, and loads them both with sugar. The Pines Family Sweet Tooth had not missed either of them. He takes a small, pecking sip to test the sweetness, the kind that scorches the tongue no matter how carefully he does it. For good measure, he adds an extra spoonful to each. Might as well.

The wind hits Stan square in the face when he steps out onto deck. It’s a strong gust today, but that’s not so uncommon on these northern waters. Coffee never stays in the too-hot-tiny-sips stage for long out here. 

Ford is leaning on the edge of the boat. It’s dark; a quick glance at his watch tells Stan that it’s about 10PM. The stars are out, and Ford is watching them. An 8-Ball cane is propped against the boat at Ford’s side. Stan had insisted that Ford get one, and Ford agreed more quickly than Stan had expected. Even more surprising than his compliance was the fact that the cane he chose was the exact same one that Stan had been using as a prop for years. Ford refused to explain himself, claiming to just like the look of it. Stan still couldn’t sort out exactly how he felt about the matter. But, based on the little grin that tugs at his lips whenever he sees the familiar cane in Ford’s hand suggests that it can’t feel too bad. 

He smiles and joins his brother, lightly prodding him with an elbow to get his attention.

“Made you coffee,” he says, passing over a mug. Ford cups it in both of his hands, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of warmth emanating from the ceramic. Stan can see him relax at the sensation. 

“Thank you, Stanley,” he says, taking a slow and careful sip. “It’s quite chilly out this evening. A warm drink is a nice idea.”

“Yeah, I thought it might be.” 

Stan is careful not to knock the cane over as he gets comfortable. The thing makes one hell of a racket when it hits the deck, and he has no desire to shatter the quiet contentment they have going on. The sound of the water lapping at the edges of their boat is something he could listen to forever.

“So what’re you looking at, Poindexter?” he asks after enjoying a few minutes of that quiet. 

“Constellations,” Ford replies, his face lighting up with that dorky excitement he gets whenever a rant is incoming. “You can see them so clearly out here.”

“Oh yeah?” Stan says, sipping his coffee. He points up to a random patch of sky. “So which constellation is that?”

“Ursa Major! Good eye, Stanley, that’s a very significant one! It’s supposedly the constellation from which the word ‘arctic’ was derived!” Ford explains enthusiastically. “Do you see that part there, spanning outward from the main body of the bear?” He gestures to a patch of sky within the patch that Stan had been looking at. “That’s the Big Dipper!” Ford chuckles, returning both of his hands to the warmth of his mug. “It’s possibly the most recognizable asterism in the heavens, and yet it’s simply a part of something larger. Ironic, don’t you think?”

Stan blinks. Then he snorts and says, “If you say so, Poindexter. I was just gonna say that I thought it looked like some sort of lumpy giraffe or somethin’!”

Ford groans. “You ought to have more appreciation for the cosmos, Stanley. It’s really amazing out there.” 

“It’s amazing out here, too,” Stan replies, nodding towards the expanse of the ocean around them. “Nothing prettier than lights from the sky bouncing on the water.”

Ford pauses, then smiles. “Yes,” he says softly, “Yes, I think so too.”

They both fall silent again, but not uncomfortably so. They stand close to each other, their arms lightly pressed together, and watch their beautiful surroundings. The ocean gently rocks their boat, and they rock with it, savouring their incredibly sweet coffee.

Unhindered and untroubled, the Stan O War II glides gently through the moonlight-dappled water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so so so so so much for reading. <3


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